v'\ 


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3 


AMAZING   GRACE 


' *J& 

I  took  up  the  first  one 


AMAZING  GRACE 

Who  Proves  That  Virtue  Has  Its  Silver  Lining 


BY 
KATE  TRIMBLE  SHARBER 

•Author  of 
THK  ANNALS  OF  ANN.  AT  THE  AGK  OF  EVE.  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

R.  M.  CROSBY 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1914 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


PRESS    OF 

BRAUNWORTH  *  CO. 

BOOKBINDERS    AND    PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN.    N.    V. 


TO 

LAURA  NORVELL  ELLIOTT 
WHO  HAS  THE  OLD  LETTERS- 
AND  KEEPS  THEM 


2138175 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    STRAINED  RELATIONS 1 

II  A  GLIMPSE  OF  PROMISED  LAND     ....  26 

III  NIP  AND  TUCK 40 

IV  THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY 59 

V    ET  Tu,  BRUTE  ! 82 

VI    FLAG  DAY 99 

VII     STRAWS  POINT 115 

VIII    LONGEST  WAY  HOME 128 

IX    MAITLAND  TAIT 141 

X    IN  THE  FIRELIGHT 157 

XI    Two  MEN  AND  A  MAID 168 

XII    AN  ASSIGNMENT       .       . 186 

XIII  JILTED! 211 

XIV  THE  SKIES  FALL 230 

XV    THE  JOURNEY 244 

XVI    LONDON 278 

XVII  HOUSE  OF  A  HUNDRED  DREAMS      ....  312 


AMAZING   GRACE 


AMAZING  GRACE 

CHAPTER  I 

STRAINED   RELATIONS 

SOME  people,  you  will  admit,  can  absorb  ex- 
perience in  gentle  little  homeopathic  doses, 
while  others  require  it  to  be  shot  into  them  by 
hypodermic  injections. 

Certainly  my  Dresden-china  mother  up  to  the 
time  of  my  birth  had  been  forced  to  take  this 
bitter  medicine  in  every  form,  yet  she  had  never 
been  known  to  profit  by  it.  She  would  not,  it  is 
true,  fly  in  the  very  face  of  Providence,  but  she 
would  nag  at  its  coat  tails. 

"You  might  as  well  name  this  child  Traise- 
the-Lord/  and  be  done  with  it!"  complained  the 
rich  Christie  connection  (which  mother  had  al- 

i 


2  AMAZING  GRACE 

ways  regarded  as  outlaws  as  well  as  in-laws), 
shaking  its  finger  across  the  christening  font  into 
mother's  boarding-school  face  on  the  day  of  my 
baptism.  "Of  course  all  the  world  knows  you're 
glad  she's  posthumous,  but  — " 

"But  with  Tom  Christie  only  six  weeks  in 
spirit-land  it  isn't  decent!"  Cousin  Pollie  finished 
up  individually. 

"Besides,  good  families  don't  name  their  chil- 
dren for  abstract  things,"  Aunt  Hannah  put  in. 
"It  —  well,  it  simply  isn't  done." 

"A  woman  who  never  does  anything  that  isn't 
done,  never  does  anything  worth  doing,"  mother 
answered,  through  pretty  pursed  lips. 

"But,  since  you  must  be  freakish,  why  not  call 
her  Prudence,  or  Patience — to  keep  Oldburgh 
from  wagging  its  tongue  in  two?"  Aunt  Louella 
suggested. 

Oldburgh  isn't  the  town's  name,  of  course,  but 
it's  a  descriptive  alias.  The  place  itself  is,  un- 
fortunately, the  worst  overworked  southern  cap- 


STRAINED  RELATIONS  3 

ital  in  fiction.  It  is  one  of  the  Old  South's 
"types,"  boasting  far  more  social  leaders  than 
sky-scrapers — and  you  can't  suffer  a  blow-out 
on  any  pike  near  the  city's  limits  that  isn't  flanked 
by  a  college  campus. 

"Oldburgh  knows  how  I  feel,"  mother  replied. 
"If  this  baby  had  been  a  boy  I  should  have  named 
him  Theodore — gift  of  God — but  since  she's  a 
girl,  her  name  is  Grace." 

She  said  it  smoothly,  I  feel  sure,  for  her  Vere 
de  Vere  repose  always  jutted  out  like  an  iceberg 
into  a  troubled  sea  when  there  was  a  family 
squall  going  on. 

"All  right!"  pronounced  two  aunts,  simulta- 
neously and  acidly. 

"All  right!"  chorused  another  two,  but  Cousin 
Pollie  hadn't  given  up  the  ship. 

"Just  name  a  girl  Faith,  Hope  or  Natalie,  if 
you  want  her  to  grow  up  freckle- faced  and  marry 
a  ribbon  clerk !"  she  threatened.  "Grace  is  every 
bit  as  bad!  It  is  indicative!  It  proclaims  what 


4  AMAZING  GRACE 

you  think  of  her — what  you  will  expect  of  her — 
and  just  trust  her  to  disappoint  you!" 

Which  is  only  too  true!  You  may  be  named 
Fannie  or  Bess  without  your  family  having  any- 
thing up  its  sleeve,  but  it's  an  entirely  different 
matter  when  you're  named  for  one  of  the  prisma- 
tic virtues.  You  know  then  that  you're  expected 
to  take  an  A.  B.  degree,  mate  with  a  millionaire 
and  bring  up  your  children  by  the  Montessori 
method. 

"Bet  Gwace  'ud  ruther  be  ducked  'n  cwistened, 
anyhow!"  observed  Guilford  Blake,  my  five-year- 
old  betrothed. — Not  that  we  were  Hindus  and 
believed  in  infant  marriage  exactly!  Not  that! 
We  were  simply  southerners,  living  in  that  por- 
tion of  the  South  where  the  principal  ambition  in 
life  is  to  "stay  put" — where  everything  you  get 
is  inherited,  tastes,  mates  and  demijohns — where 
blood  is  thicker  than  axle-grease,  and  the  dividing 
fence  between  your  estate  and  the  next  is  prop- 
erly supposed  to  act  as  a  seesaw  basis  for  your 


STRAINED  RELATIONS  5 

amalgamated  grandchildren. — Hence  this  early 
occasion  for  "Enter  Guilford." 

"My  daughter  is  not  going  to  disappoint  me," 
mother  declared,  as  she  motioned  for  Guil ford's 
mother  to  come  forward  and  keep  him  from  pro- 
faning the  water  in  the  font  with  his  little  cellu- 
loid duck. 

"Don't  be  too  sure,"  warned  Cousin  Pollie. 

"Well,  I'll— I'll  risk  it!"  mother  fired  back. 
"And  if  you  must  know  the  truth,  I  couldn't  ex- 
press my  feelings  of  gratitude — yes,  I  said  grat- 
itude — in  any  other  name  than  Grace.  I  have  had 
a  wonderful  blessing  lately,  and  I  am  going  to 
give  credit  where  it  is  due!  It  was  nothing  less 
than  an  act  of  heavenly  grace  that  released  me!" 

At  this  point  the  mercury  dropped  so  sud- 
denly that  Cousin  Pollie's  breath  became  visible. 
Only  six  weeks  before  my  father  had  died — of 
delirium  tremens.  It  was  a  case  of  "the  death 
wound  on  his  gallant  breast  the  last  of  many 
scars,"  but  the  Christies  had  never  given  mother 


6  AMAZING  GRACE 

any  sympathy  on  that  account.  He  had  done 
nothing  worse,  his  family  considered,  than  to  get 
his  feet  tangled  up  in  the  line  of  least  resistance. 
Nearly  every  southern  man  born  with  a  silver 
spoon  in  his  mouth  discards  it  for  a  straw  to 
drink  mint  julep  with ! 

"Calling  her  the  whole  of  the  doxology  isn't 
going  to  get  that  Christie  look  off  her!"  father's 
family  sniffed,  their  triumph  answering  her  de- 
fiant outburst.  "She  is  the  living  image  of  Uncle 
Lancelot!" 

You'll  notice  this  about  in-laws.  If  the  baby 
is  like  their  family  their  attitude  is  triumphant — 
if  it's  like  anybody  else  on  the  face  of  the  earth 
their  manner  is  distinctly  accusing. 

"  'Lancelot!'  "  mother  repeated  scornfully.  "If 
they  had  to  name  him  for  poetry  why  didn't  they 
call  him  Lothario  and  be  done  with  it!" 

The  circle  again  stiffened,  as  if  they  had  a 
spine  in  common. 

"Certainly  it  isn't  becoming  in  you  to  train 
this  child  up  with  a  disrespectful  feeling  toward 


STRAINED  RELATIONS  7 

Uncle  Lancelot,"  some  one  reprimanded  quickly, 
"since  she  gives  every  evidence  of  being  very 
much  like  him  in  appearance." 

"My  child  like  that  notorious  Lancelot 
Christie !"  mother  repeated,  then  burst  into  tears. 
"Why  she's  a  Moore,  I'll  have  you  understand 
— from  here — down  to  here!" 

She  encompassed  the  space  between  the  crown 
of  my  throbbing  head  and  the  soles  of  my  kicking 
feet,  but  neither  the  tears  nor  the  measurements 
melted  Cousin  Pollie. 

"A  Moore !  Bah !  Why,  you  needn't  expect  that 
she'll  turn  out  anything  like  you.  A  Lydia  Lan- 
guish mother  always  brings  forth  a  caryatid !" 

"A  what?"  mother  demanded  frenziedly,  then 
remembering  that  Cousin  Pollie  had  just  re- 
turned from  Europe  with  guide-books  full  of 
strange  but  not  necessarily  insulting  words,  she 
backed  down  into  her  former  assertion.  "She's 
a  Moore !  She's  the  image  of  my  revered  father." 

"There's  something  in  that,  Pollie,"  admitted 
Aunt  Louella,  who  was  the  weak-kneed  one  of 


8  AMAZING  GRACE 

the  sisters.  "Look  at  the  poetic  little  brow  and 
expression  of  spiritual  intelligence!" 

"But  what  a  combination!"  Aunt  Hannah 
pointed  out.  "As  sure  as  you're  a  living  woman 
this  mouth  and  chin  are  like  Uncle  Lancelot! 
— Think  of  it — Jacob  Moore  and  Lancelot 
Christie  living  together  in  the  same  skin !" 

"Why,  they'll  tear  the  child  limb  from  limb!" 

This  piece  of  sarcasm  came  from  old  great- 
great-aunt,  Patricia  Christie,  who  never  took 
sides  with  anybody  in  family  disputes,  because 
she  hated  them  one  and  all  alike.  She  rose  from 
her  chair  now  and  hobbled  on  her  stick  into  the 
midst  of  the  battle-field. 

"Let  me  see !    Let  me  see !" 

"She's  remarkably  like  Uncle  Lancelot,  aunty," 
Cousin  Pollie  declared  with  a  superior  air  of 
finality. 

"She's  a  thousand  times  more  like  my  father 
than  I,  myself,  am,"  poor  little  mother  avowed 
stanchly. 


STRAINED  RELATIONS  9 

"Then,  all  I've  got  to  say  is  that  it's  a  devilish 
bad  combination !"  Aunt  Patricia  threw  out,  mak- 
ing faces  at  them  impartially. 

And  to  pursue  the  matter  further,  I  may  state 
that  it  was!  All  my  life  I  have  been  divided  be- 
tween those  ancient  enemies — cut  in  two  by  a 
Solomon's  sword,  as  it  were,  because  no  decision 
could  be  made  as  to  which  one  really  owned  me. 

You  believe  in  a  "dual  personality"?  Well, 
they're  mine !  They  quarrel  within  me !  They 
dispute !  They  pull  and  wrangle  and  seesaw  in 
as  many  different  directions  as  a  party  of  Cook 
tourists  in  Cairo — coming  into  the  council-cham- 
ber of  my  conscience  to  decide  everything  I  do, 
from  the  selection  of  a  black-dotted  veil  to  the 
emancipation  of  the  sex — while  I  sit  by  as  help- 
less as  a  bound-and-gagged  spiritual  medium. 

"They're  not  going  to  affect  her  future," 
mother  said,  but  a  little  gasp  of  fear  showed 
that  if  she'd  been  a  Roman  Catholic  she  would 
be  crossing  herself. 


io  AMAZING  GRACE 

"Of  course  not!"  Aunt  Patricia  answered. 
"It's  all  written  down,  anyhow,  in  her  little  hand. 
Let  me  see  the  lines  of  her  palm !" 

"Her  feet's  a  heap  cuter!"  Guilford  advised, 
but  the  old  lady  untwisted  my  tight  little  fist. 

"Ah!    This  tells  the  story!" 

"What?"  mother  asked,  peering  over  eagerly. 

"Nothing — nothing,  except  that  the  youngster's 
a  Christie,  sure  enough !  All  heart  and  no  head." 

Mother  started  to  cry  again,  but  Aunt  Pat- 
ricia stopped  her. 

"For  the  lord's  sake  hush — here  comes  the 
minister!  Anyhow,  if  the  child  grows  up  beau- 
tiful she  may  survive  it — but  heaven  help  the 
woman  who  has  a  big  heart  and  a  big  nose  at 
the  same  time." 

Then,  with  this  christening  and  bit  of  geneao- 
logical  gossip  by  way  of  introduction,  the  next 
mile-stone  in  my  career  came  one  day  when  the 
twentieth  century  was  in  its  wee  small  figures. 

"I  hate  Grandfather  Moore  and  Uncle  Lance- 
lot Christie,  both!"  I  confided  to  Aunt  Patricia 


STRAINED  RELATIONS  1 1 

upon  that  occasion,  having  been  sent  to  her  room 
to  make  her  a  duty  visit,  as  I  was  home  for  the 
holidays — a  slim-legged  sorority  "pledge" — and 
had  learned  that  talking  about  the  Past,  either  for 
or  against,  was  the  only  way  to  gain  her  atten- 
tion. "I  hate  them  both,  I  say!  I  wish  you 
could  be  vaccinated  against  your  ancestors.  Are 
they  in  you  to  stay?" 

I  put  the  question  pertly,  for  she  was  not  the 
kind  to  endure  timidity  nor  hushed  reverence 
from  her  family  connections.  She  was  a  woman 
of  great  spirit  herself,  and  she  called  forth  spirit 
in  other  people.  A  visit  with  her  was  more  like 
a  bomb  than  a  benediction. 

"Hate  your  ancestors?" 

At  this  time  she  was  perching,  hawk-eyed  and 
claw-fingered,  upon  the  edge  of  the  grave,  but 
she  always  liked  and  remembered  me  because  I 
happened  to  be  the  only  member  of  the  family 
who  didn't  keep  a  black  bonnet  in  readiness  upon 
the  wardrobe  shelf. 

"I  hate  that  grandfather  and  Uncle  Lancelot 


12  AMAZING  GRACE 

affair!  Don't  you  think  it's  a  pity  I  couldn't 
have  had  a  little  say-so  in  that  business  ?" 

"Yes — no — I  don't  know — ouch,  my  knee!" 
she  snapped.  "What  a  chatterbox  you  are,  Grace ! 
I've  got  rheumatism !" 

"But  I've  got  'hereditary  tendencies/  "  I  per- 
sisted, "and  chloroform  liniment  won't  do  any 
good  with  my  ailment.  I  wish  I  need  never  hear 
my  family  history  mentioned  again." 

"Then,  you  shouldn't  have  chosen  so  notable  a 
lineage,"  she  exclaimed  viciously.  "Your  Grand- 
father Moore,  as  you  know,  was  a  famous 
divine — " 

"I  know — and  Uncle  Lancelot  Christie  was  an 
equally  famous  infernal,"  I  said,  for  the  sake  of 
varying  the  story  a  little.  I  was  so  tired  of  it. 

She  stared,  arrested  in  her  recital. 

"What?" 

"Well,  if  you  call  a  minister  a  divine,  why 
shouldn't  you  call  a  gambler  an  infernal?" 

"Just  after  the  Civil  War,"  she  kept  on,  with 
the  briefest  pause  left  to  show  that  she  ignored 


STRAINED  RELATIONS  13 

my  interruption,  "your  grandfather  did  all  in  his 
power — although  he  was  no  kin  to  me,  I  give 
him  credit  for  that — he  did  all  in  his  power  to  re- 
establish peace  between  the  states  by  preaching 
and  praying  across  the  border." 

"And  Uncle  Lancelot  accomplished  the  feat  in 
half  the  time  by  flirting  and  marrying,"  I  re- 
minded her. 

She  turned  her  face  away,  to  hide  a  smile  I 
knew,  for  she  always  concealed  what  was  pleas- 
ant and  displayed  grimaces. 

"Well,  I  must  admit  that  when  Lancelot 
brought  home  his  third  Ohio  heiress — " 

"The  other  two  heiresses  having  died  of  neg- 
lect," I  put  in  to  show  my  learning. 

" —  many  southern  aristocrats  felt  that  if  the 
Mason  and  Dixon  line  had  not  been  wiped  away 
it  had  at  least  been  broken  up  into  dots  and 
dashes — like  a  telegraph  code." 

I  smiled  conspicuously  at  her  wit,  then  went 
back  to  my  former  stand.  I  was  determined  to  be 
firm  about  it. 


14  AMAZING  GRACE 

"I  don't  care — I  hate  them  both !  Nagging  old 
crisscross  creatures !" 

She  looked  at  me  blankly  for  a  moment,  then : 

"Grace,  you  amaze  me !"  she  said. 

But  she  mimicked  mother's  voice — mother's 
hurt,  helpless,  moral-suasion  voice — as  she  said 
it,  and  we  both  burst  out  laughing. 

"But,  honest  Injun,  aunty,  if  a  person's  got  to 
carry  around  a  heritage,  why  aren't  you  allowed 
to  choose  which  one  you  prefer?"  I  asked;  then, 
a  sudden  memory  coming  to  me,  I  leaped  to  my 
feet  and  sprang  across  the  room,  my  gym.  shoes 
Rounding  in  hospital  thuds  against  the  floor.  I 
drew  up  to  where  three  portraits  hung  on  the 
opposite  wall.  They  represented  an  admiral,  an 
ambassador  and  an  artist. 

"Why  can't  you  adopt  an  ancestor,  as  you  can 
a  child  ?"  I  asked  again,  turning  back  to  her. 

"Adopt  an  ancestor?" 

Her  voice  was  trembling  with  excitement, 
which  was  not  brought  about  by  the  annoyance 
of  my  chatter,  and  as  I  saw  that  she  was  nodding 


STRAINED  RELATIONS  15 

her  head  vigorously,  I  calmed  down  at  once  and 
regretted  my  precipitate  action,  for  the  doctor 
had  said  that  any  unusual  exertion  or  change  of 
routine  would  end  her. 

"I  only  meant  that  I'd  prefer  these  to  grand- 
father and  Uncle  Lancelot,"  I  explained  sooth- 
ingly, but  her  anxiety  only  increased. 

"Which  one?"  she  demanded  in  a  squeaky 
voice  which  fairly  bubbled  with  a  "bully- for-you" 
sound.  "Which  one,  Grace?" 

"Him,"  I  answered. 

"They're  all  hims!"  she  screamed  impatiently. 

"I  mean  the  artist." 

At  this  she  tried  to  struggle  to  her  feet,  then 
settled  back  in  exhaustion  and  drew  a  deep 
breath. 

"Come  here!  Come  here  quick!"  she  panted 
weakly. 

"Yes,  'urn." 

She  wiped  away  a  tear,  in  great  shame,  for  she 
was  not  a  weeping  woman. 

"Thank  God !"  she  said  angrily.    "Thank  God ! 


1 6  AMAZING  GRACE 

That  awful  problem  is  settled  at  last!  I  knew  I 
couldn't  have  a  moment's  peace  a-dying  until  I 
had  decided." 

"Decided  what?"  I  gasped  in  dismay,  for  I 
was  afraid  from  the  look  in  her  eyes  that  she  was 
"seeing  things."  "Shall  I  call  mother,  or — some 
one?" 

"Don't  you  dare!"  she  challenged.  "Don't 
you  leave  this  room,  miss.  It's  you  that  I  have 
business  with!" 

"But  I  haven't  done  a  thing!"  I  plead,  as  weak 
all  of  a  sudden  as  she  was. 

"It's  not  what  you've  done,  but  what  you 
are/'  she  exclaimed.  "You're  the  only  member 
of  this  family  that  has  an  idea  which  isn't  framed 
and  hung  up!  Now,  listen!  I'm  going  to  leave 
you  something — something  very  precious.  Do 
you  know  about  that  artist  over  there — James 
Mackenzie  Christie — our  really  famous  ancestor 
—my  great-uncle,  who  has  been  dead  these  sixty 
years,  but  will  always  be  immortal?  Do  you 
know  about  him  ?" 


STRAINED  RELATIONS  17 

"Yes— I  know!" 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  leave — those  letters — those 
terrible  love-letters  to  you!" 

I  drew  back,  as  if  she'd  pointed  a  pistol  straight 
at  me. 

"But  they're  the  skeleton  in  the  closet,"  I  re- 
peated, having  heard  it  expressed  that  way  all  my 
life. 

She  was  angry  for  a  moment,  then  she  began 
laughing  reminiscently  and  rocking  herself  back- 
ward and  forward  slowly  in  her  chair.  Her 
face  was  as  detached  and  crazy  as  Ophelia's  over 
her  botany  lesson,  when  she  gets  on  your  nerves 
with  her :  "There  is  pansies,  that's  for  thoughts," 
and  so  forth. 

"Yes,  he  left  a  skeleton — what  was  considered 
a  skeleton  in  those  days — Uncle  James — our  fam- 
ily's great  man — but  such  a  skeleton!  People 
now  would  understand  how  wonderful  it  is — 
with  its  carved  ivory  bones — and  golden  joints 
and  ruby  eyes !  You  little  fool!" 

"Why,  I'm  proud!"  I  denied,  backing  back,  all 


i8  AMAZING  GRACE 

a-tremble.  "I'll  love  those  letters,  Aunt  Pat- 
ricia." 

"You'd  better!" 

"I'll  be  sure  to,"  I  reiterated,  but  her  face  sud- 
denly softened,  and  she  caught  up  my  hand  in 
her  yellow  claw.  She  studied  the  palm  for  a 
moment. 

"You'll  understand  them,"  she  sighed.  "Poor 
little,  heart-strong  Christie!" 

And,  whether  her  words  were  prophetic  or  de- 
lirious, she  had  told  the  truth.  I  have  understood 
them. 

She  gave  them  over  into  my  keeping  that  day ; 
and  the  next  morning  we  found  her  settled  back 
among  her  pillows,  imagining  that  all  her  broth- 
ers and  sisters  were  flying  above  the  mantlepiece 
and  that  the  Chinese  vase  was  in  danger.  An- 
other day  passed,  and  on  Sunday  afternoon  all 
the  wardrobe  shelves  yielded  up  their  black  bon- 
nets. 

I  was  not  distressed,  but  I  was  lonely,  with  an 
ultra-Sabbathical  repression  over  my  spirits. 


STRAINED  RELATIONS  19 

"I  believe  I'll  amuse  myself  by  reading  over 
those  old  letters,"  I  suggested  to  mother,  as  time 
dragged  wearily  before  the  crowd  began  to 
gather.  But  she  uttered  a  shriek,  with  an  ultra- 
Sabbathical  repression  over  its  tone. 

"Grace,  you  amaze  me !"  she  said. 

"She's  really  a  most  American  child!"  Cousin 
Pollie  pronounced  severely,  having  just  finished 
doing  the  British  Isles. 

After  this  it  seemed  that  years  and  years  and 
years  of  the  twentieth  century  passed — all  in  a 
heap.  I  awoke  one  morning  to  find  myself  set  in 
my  ways.  Most  women,  in  the  formation  of  their 
happiness,  are  willing  to  let  nature  take  its  course, 
then  there  are  others  who  are  not  content  with 
this,  but  demand  a  postgraduate  course.  I,  un- 
fortunately, belonged  to  this  latter  class.  Grow- 
ing up  I  was  fairly  normal,  not  idle  enough  at 
school  to  forecast  a  brilliant  career  in  any  of  the 
arts,  nor  studious  enough  to  deserve  a  prediction 
of  mediocre  plodding  the  rest  of  my  life ;  but  after 
school  came  the  deluge.  I  was  restless,  shabby 


20  AMAZING  GRACE 

and  single — no  one  of  which  mother  could  en- 
dure in  her  daughter. 

So  I  was  a  disappointment  to  her,  while  the 
rest  of  the  tribe  gloated.  The  name,  Grace,  with 
all  appurtenances  and  emoluments  accruing  there- 
to, availed  nothing.  I  was  a  failure. 

"My  pet  abomination  begins  with  C,"  I  chat- 
tered savagely  to  myself  one  afternoon  in  June, 
a  suitable  number  of  years  after  the  above-men- 
tioned christening,  as  I  made  my  way  to  my  own 
private  desk  in  the  office  of  The  Oldburgh  Herald, 
pondering  family  affairs  in  my  heart  as  I  went. 
"Of  course  this  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  whole 
agony!  They  just  can't  bear  to  see  me  turn  out 
to  be  a  newspaper  reporter  instead  of  Mrs.  Guil- 
ford  Blake.  And  I  hate  everything  that  they 
love  best — cities,  clothes,  clubs,  culture,  civilities, 
conventions,  chiffons !" 

I  was  thinking  of  Cousin  Pollie's  comment 
when  she  first  saw  a  feature  story  in  the  Herald 
signed  with  my  name. 

"Is  the  girl  named  Grace  or  Disgrace?"  she 


STRAINED  RELATIONS  21 

had  asked.  "Not  since  America  was  a  wilder- 
ness has  the  name  of  any  Christie  woman  ap- 
peared outside  the  head-lines  of  the  society  col- 
umn !" 

"The  whole  connection  has  raised  its  eye- 
brows," I  laughed,  when  I  met  the  owner  and 
publisher  of  the  paper  down  in  his  private  office 
the  next  day.  He  was  an  old  friend  of  the  fam- 
ily, having  fought  beside  my  revered  grandfather, 
and  he  had  taken  me  into  the  family  circle  of  the 
Herald  more  out  of  sympathy  than  need. 

"That's  all  right!  It's  better  to  raise  an  eye- 
brow than  to  raise  hell !"  he  laughed  back. 

But  on  the  June  afternoon  I  .have  in  mind, 
when  I  hurried  up-town  thinking  over  my  pet 
abominations  beginning  with  C,  I  was  still  a  fairly 
civilized  being.  I  lived  at  home  with  mother  in 
the  old  house,  for  one  thing,  instead  of  in  an  in- 
dependent apartment,  after  the  fashion  of  eman- 
cipated women — and  I  still  wore  Guilford  Blake's 
heirloom  scarab  ring. 

"Aren't  your  nerves  a  little  on  edge  just  now, 


22  AMAZING  GRACE 

Grace,  from  the  scene  this  morning?"  something 
kept  whispering  in  my  ears  in  an  effort  to  tame 
my  savagery.  It  was  the  soft  virtuous  personality 
of  my  inner  consciousness,  which,  according  to 
science,  was  Grandfather  Moore.  "You'll  be  all 
right,  my  dear,  as  soon  as  you  make  up  your 
mind  to  do  the  square  thing  about  this  matter 
which  is  agitating  you.  And  of  course  you  are 
going  to  do  the  square  thing.  Money  isn't  all 
there  is." 

"Now,  that's  all  rot,  parson !"  Uncle  Lancelot, 
in  the  other  hemisphere  of  my  brain,  denied  stout- 
ly. "Don't  listen  to  him,  Grace!  You  can't  go 
on  living  this  crocheted  life,  and  money  will  bring 
freedom." 

"He's  a  sophist,  Grace,"  came  convincingly 
across  the  wires. 

"He's  a  purist,  Grace,"  flashed  back. 

"Hush!  Hush!  What  do  two  old  Kilkenny 
cats  of  ancestors  know  about  my  problems?"  I 
cried  fiercely.  Then,  partly  to  drown  out  their 
clamor,  I  kept  on:  "My  pet  abominations  in 


STRAINED  RELATIONS  23 

several  syllables  are — checkered  career — contigu- 
ous choice — just  because  his  mother  and  mine 
lived  next  door  when  they  were  girls — circum- 
scribed capabilities — " 

"And  the  desire  of  your  heart  begins  with  H/y 
Uncle  Lancelot  said  triumphantly.  "You  want 
Happy  Humanness — different  brand  and  harder 
to  get  than  Human  Happiness — you  want  a 
House  that  is  a  Home,  and  above  all  else  you 
want  a  Husband  with  a  sense  of  Humor!" 

"But  how  could  this  letter  affect  all  this?"  I 
asked  myself,  stopping  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  to 
take  a  message  in  rich  vellum  stationery  from  my 
bag.  "How  can  so  much  be  contained  in  one 
little  envelope?" 

After  all,  this  was  what  it  said : 

"My  dear  Miss  Christie : 

"While  in  Oldburgh  recently  on  a  visit  to  Mr. 
Clarence  Wiley" — he  was  the  author  of  blood- 
and-thunder  detective  stories  who  lived  on  Wav- 
erley  Pike  and  raised  pansies  between  times — "I 
learned  that  you  are  in  possession  of  the  love- 
letters  written  by  the  famous  Lady  Frances  Webb 


24  AMAZING  GRACE 

to  your  illustrious  ancestor,  James  Mackenzie 
Christie.  Mr.  Wiley  himself  was  my  informer, 
and  being  a  friend  of  your  family  was  naturally 
able  to  give  me  much  interesting  information 
about  the  remaining  evidences  of  this  widely- 
discussed  affair. 

"No  doubt  the  idea  has  occurred  to  you  that 
the  love-letters  of  a  celebrated  English  novelist 
to  the  first  American  artist  of  his  time  would 
make  valuable  reading  matter  for  the  public;  and 
the  suggestion  of  these  letters  being  done  into  a 
book  has  made  such  charming  appeal  to  my  mind 
that  I  resolved  to  put  the  matter  before  you  with- 
out delay. 

"To  be  perfectly  plain  and  direct,  this  inherit- 
ance of  yours  can  be  made  into  a  small  fortune 
for  you,  since  the  material,  properly  handled, 
would  make  one  of  the  best-selling  books  of  the 
decade. 

"If  you  are  interested  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear 
from  you,  and  we  can  then  take  up  at  once  the 
business  details  of  the  transaction.  Mr.  Wiley 
spoke  in  such  high  praise  of  the  literary  value  of 
the  letters  that  my  enthusiasm  has  been  keenly 
aroused. 

"With  all  good  wishes,  I  am, 

"Very  sincerely  yours, 

"Julien  J.  Dutweiler." 

There  was  an  embossed  superscription  on  the 


STRAINED  RELATIONS  25 

envelope's  flap  which  read:  "Coburn-Colt  Com- 
pany, Publishers,  Philadelphia."  They  were 
America's  best-known  promoters — the  kind  who 
could  take  six  inches  of  advertising  and  a  red- 
and-gold  binding  and  make  a  mountain  out  of  a 
mole-hill. 

"'Small  fortune!'"  I  repeated.  "Surely  a 
great  temptation  does  descend  during  a  hungry 
spell — in  real  life,  as  well  as  in  human  docu- 
ments." 


CHAPTER  II 

A  GLIMPSE  OF   PROMISED  LAND 

44TTELLO,  Grace!" 

J.  J.  I  was  passing  the  society  editor  in  her 
den  a  moment  later,  and  she  called  out  a  cheery 
greeting,  although  she  didn't  look  up  from  her 
task.  She  was  polishing  her  finger-nails  as  busily 
as  if  she  lived  for  her  hands — not  by  them. 

"Hello,  Jane!" 

My  very  voice  was  out  of  alignment,  however, 
as  I  spoke. 

"Are  you  going  to  let  all  the  world  see  that 
you're  not  a  headstrong  woman?"  something  in- 
side my  pride  asked  angrily,  but  as  if  for  cor- 
roboration  of  my  conscientious  whisperings,  I 
looked  in  a  shamefaced  way  at  the  lines  of  my 
palm. — The  head-line  was  weak  and  isolated — 

26 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  PROMISED  LAND    27 

while  the  heart-line  was  as  crisscrossed  as  a  centi- 
pede track ! 

But  a  heart-line  has  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  a 
city  editor's  desk — certainly  not  on  a  day  when 
the  crumpled  balls  of  copy  paper  lying  about  his 
waste-basket  look  as  if  a  woman  had  thrown 
them!  Every  one  had  missed  its  mark,  and  up 
and  down  the  length  of  the  room  the  typewriters 
were  clicking  falsetto  notes.  The  files  of  papers 
on  the  table  were  in  as  much  confusion  as  pat- 
terns for  heathen  petticoats  at  a  missionary 
meeting. 

"What's  up?" 

I  had  made  my  way  to  the  desk  of  the  sporting 
editor,  who  writes  poetry  and  pretends  he's  so 
aerial  that  he  never  knows  what  day  of  the  week 
it  is,  but  when  you  pin  him  down  he  can  tell  you 
exactly  what  you  want  to  know — from  the  color 
of  the  bride's  going-away  gown  to  the  amount 
the  bridegroom  borrowed  on  his  life  insurance 
policy. 

"Search  me !""  he  answered — as  usual. 


28  AMAZING  GRACE 

"But  there's  something  going  on  in  this  office !" 
I  insisted.  "Everybody  looks  as  exercised  as  if 
the  baby'd  just  swallowed  a  moth-ball." 

"Huh?" 

He  looked  around — then  opened  his  eyes  wider. 
"Oh,  I  believe  I  did  hear  'em  say — " 

"What?" 

"That  they  can't  get  hold  of  that  story  about 
the  Consolidated  Traction  Company." 

" — And  damn  those  foreigners  who  come  over 
here  with  their  fool  notions  of  dignity !"  broke  in 
the  voice  of  the  city  editor — then  stopped  and 
blushed  when  he  saw  me  within  ear-shot,  for  it's 
a  rule  of  the  office  that  no  one  shall  say  "damn" 
without  blushing,  except  the  society  editor  and 
her  assistants. 

"Who's  the  foreigner?"  I  asked,  for  the  sake 
of  warding  off  apologies.  That's  why  men  ob- 
ject so  strongly  to  women  mixing  up  with  them 
in  business  life.  It  keeps  them  eternally  apologiz- 
ing. 

"Maitland  Tait,"  he  replied. 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  PROMISED  LAND    29 

"Maitland  Tait?  But  that's  not  foreign. 
That's  perfectly  good  English." 

"So's  he!"  the  city  editor  snapped.  "It's  his 
confounded  John  Bullishness  that's  causing  all 
the  trouble." 

"But  the  traction  company's  no  kin  to  us,  is 
it?"  the  poet  inquired  crossly,  for  he  was  report- 
ing a  double-header  in  verse,  and  our  chatter  an- 
noyed him. 

"Trouble  will  be  kin  to  us — if  somebody 
doesn't  break  in  on  Great  Britain  and  make  him 
cough  up  the  story,"  the  city  editor  warned  over 
his  shoulder.  "I've  already  sent  demons  and 
Bolton  and  Reade." 

" —  And  it  would  mean  a  raise,"  the  poet  said, 
with  a  tender  little  smile.  "A  raise !" 

"Are  you  sure?"  I  asked,  after  the  superior 
officer  had  disappeared.  "I'd  like — a  raise." 

He  looked  at  me  contemptuously. 

"You  don't  know  what  the  Consolidated  Trac- 
tion Company  is,  I  suppose?"  he  asked. 

My  business  on  the  paper  was  reporting  art 


30  AMAZING  GRACE 

meetings  at  the  Carnegie  Library  and  donation 
affairs  at  settlement  homes  because  the  owner 
and  publisher  drank  out  of  the  same  canteen  with 
my  grandfather — and  my  fellows  on  the  staff 
called  me  behind  my  back  their  ornamental  mem- 
ber. 

"I  do!"  I  bristled.  "It's  located  at  a  greasy 
place,  called  Loomis — and  it's  something  that 
makes  the  wheels  go  round." 

He  smiled. 

"It  certainly  does  in  Oldburgh,"  he  said.  "It's 
the  biggest  thing  we  have,  next  to  our  own  cotton 
mills  and  to  think  that  they're  threatening  to  take 
their  doll-rags  and  move  to  Birmingham  and  leave 
us  desolate !" 

"Where  the  iron  would  be  nearer?"  I  asked, 
and  he  fairly  beamed. 

"Sure!  Say,  if  you  know  that  much  about  the 
company's  affairs,  why  don't  you  try  for  this  as- 
signment yourself?" 

But  I  shook  my  head. 

"I've  got  relatives  in  Alabama — that's  how  I 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  PROMISED  LAND     31 

knew  that  iron  grows  on  trees  down  there,"  I 
explained. 

"Well— that's  what  the  trouble  is  about !  Old- 
burgh  can't  tell  whether  this  fellow,  Maitland 
Tait,  is  going  to  pack  the  'whole  blarsted  thing, 
don't  you  know,  into  his  portmanteau'  and  tote  it 
off — or  buy  up  more  ground  here  and  enlarge  the 
plant  so  that  the  company's  grandchildren  will 
call  this  place  home." 

I  turned  away,  feeling  very  indifferent.  Old- 
burgh's  problem  was  small  compared  with  that 
letter  in  my  hand-bag. 

"And  he  won't  tell  ?"  I  asked,  crossing  over  to 
my  own  desk  and  fitting  the  key  in  a  slipshod 
fashion. 

"He  seems  to  think  that  silence  is  the  divine 
right  of  corporations.  Nobody  has  been  able  to 
get  a  word  out  of  him — nor  even  to  see  him." 

"Then — they  don't  know  whether  he's  a  human 
being  or  a  Cockney  ?" 

He  leaned  across  toward  me,  his  elbow  flat- 
tening two  tiers  of  keys  on  his  machine. 


32  AMAZING  GRACE 

"Say,  the  society's  column's  having  fever  and 
ague,  too,"  he  whispered.  "The  tale  records  that 
two  of  our  'acknowledged  leaders'  met  him  in 
Pittsburgh  last  winter — and  they're  at  daggers' 
points  now  for  the  privilege  of  killing  the  fatted 
calf  for  him. — The  one  that  does  it  first  is  IT,  of 
course,  and  Jane  Lassiter's  scared  to  death !  The 
calf  is  fat  and  the  knife  is  sharp — but  no  report 
of  the  killing  has  come  in." 

I  laughed.  It  always  makes  me  laugh  when  I 
think  how  hard  some  people  work  to  get  rid  of 
their  fatted  calves,  and  how  much  harder  others 
have  to  labor  to  acquire  a  veal  cutlet. 

"Of  course  he  was  born  in  a  cabin?"  I  turned 
back  to  the  poet  and  asked,  after  a  little  while 
devoted  to  my  own  work,  in  which  I  learned  that 
my  mind  wouldn't  concentrate  sufficiently  for  me 
to  embroider  my  story  of  an  embryo  Michael- 
angelo  the  Carnegie  Art  Club  had  just  discovered. 
"A  cabin  in  the  Cornish  hills — don't  you  know?" 

The  sporting  editor  pulled  himself  viciously 
away  from  his  typewriter. 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  PROMISED  LAND     33 

"Ty  Cobb— Dry  sob— By  mob—" 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon !" 

"Can't  you  see  when  a  poem  is  about  to  die 
a-borning?"  he  asked  furiously. 

"I  am  sorry — and  perhaps  I  might  help  you  a 
little,"  I  suggested  with  becoming  meekness. 
"How's  this?— High  job— Nigh  rob—" 

I  paused  and  he  began  writing  hurriedly. 
Looking  up  again  he  threw  me  a  smile. 

"Bully!  Grace  Christie,  you're  the  light  o'  my 
life,"  he  announced,  "and — and  of  course  that 
blamed  Englishman  was  born  in  a  cabin,  if  that's 
what  you  want  to  know." 

"It's  not  that  I  care,  but — they  always  are,"  I 
explained.  "They're  born  in  a  cabin,  come  across 
in  the  steerage  amid  terrific  storms — Why  is  it 
that  everybody's  story  of  steerage  crossing  is 
stormy  ? — It  seems  to  me  it  would  be  bad  enough 
without  that — then  he  sold  papers  for  two  years 
beneath  the  cart-wheels  around  the  Battery,  and 
by  sheer  strength  of  brain  and  brawn,  has  ele- 
vated himself  into  the  proud  privilege  of  being 


34  AMAZING  GRACE 

able  to  die  in  a  'carstle'  when  it  suits  his  con- 
venience." 

The  sporting  editor  looked  solicitous. 

"And  now,  if  I  were  you,  to  keep  from  wearing 
myself  out  with  talking,  I'd  get  on  the  car  and 
ride  out  to  Glendale  Park,"  he  advised. 

But  I  shook  my  head. 

"I  can't." 

"You  really  owe  it  to  yourself,"  he  insisted. 
"You  are  showing  symptoms  of  a  strange  excite- 
ment to-day.  You  look  as  if  you  were  talking  to 
keep  from  doing  something  more  annoying — if 
such  a  thing  were  possible." 

"I'm  not  going  to  weep — either  from  excite- 
ment or  the  effects  of  your  rudeness,"  I  returned, 
then  wheeling  around  and  facing  my  desk  again 
I  let  my  dual  personality  take  up  its  song. 

"I  can  and  I  can't; 
I  will  and  I  won't; 
I'll  be  damned  if  I  do — 
I'll  be  damned  if  I  don't!" 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  PROMISED  LAND     35 

The  story  goes  that  a  queen  of  Sweden  com- 
posed this  classic  many  years  ago,  but  it's  cer- 
tainly the  national  song  of  every  one  who  has 
two  people  living  in  his  skin  that  are  not  on 
speaking  terms  with  each  other. 

Then,  partly  to  keep  from  annoying  the  poet 
again,  partly  because  it's  the  thing  a  woman  al- 
ways does,  I  took  out  the  letter  and  read  it  over 
once  more. 

"Coburn-Colt— Philadelphia !" 

The  paper  was  a  creamy  satin,  the  embossing 
severely  correct,  the  typing  so  neat  and  business- 
like that  I  could  scarcely  believe  the  letter 
was  meant  for  me  when  I  looked  at  the  outside 
only. 

"Wonder  what  'Julien  J.  Dutweiler'  would 
call  a  small  fortune?"  I  muttered.  '  "Five  thou- 
sand dollars?  Ten  thousand  dollars! — Good 
heavens,  then  mother  could  have  all  the  crepe 
meteor  gowns  she  wanted  without  my  ever— 
ever  having  to  marry  Guilford  Blake  for  her 
sake!" 


36  AMAZING  GRACE 

But  as  I  sat  there  thinking,  grandfather  took 
up  the  cudgels  bravely — even  though  the  people 
most  concerned  were  Christies  and  not  Moores. 

"Think  well,  Grace !  That  'best-selling'  clause 
means  not  only  Maine  to  California,  but  England, 
Ireland,  Scotland,  Wales  and  Berwick-on-the- 
Tweed!"  he  warned.  "Everybody  who  had  ever 
heard  of  either  of  these  two  unfortunate  people 
will  buy  a  copy  of  the  book  and  read  it  to  find  out 
what  really  happened !" 

"But  the  letters  are  hers!"  Uncle  Lancelot  re- 
minded him.  "If  people  don't  want  posterity  to 
know  the  truth  about  them  they  ought  to  confine 
themselves  to  wireless  communications." 

"And — what  would  your  Aunt  Patricia  say?" 
grandfather  kept  on.  "What  would  James 
Christie  say?  What  would  Lady  Frances  Webb 
say?" 

Thinking  is  certainly  a  bad  habit — especially 
when  your  time  belongs  to  somebody  else  and 
you  are  not  being  paid  to  think !  Nevertheless,  I 
sat  there  all  the  afternoon,  puzzling  my  brain, 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  PROMISED  LAND     37 

when  my  brain  was  not  supposed  to  wake  up  and 
rub  its  eyes  at  all  inside  the  Herald  office.  I  was 
being  paid  to  come  there  and  write  airy  little 
nothings  for  the  Herald's  airy  little  readers,  yet 
I  added  to  my  sin  of  indecision  by  absorbing  time 
which  wasn't  mine. 

"Of  course  the  possession  of  these  letters  in  a 
way  connects  you  with  greatness,"  grandfather 
would  say  once  in  a  while,  in  a  lenient,  musing 
sort  of  way.  "But  I  trust  that  you  are  not  going 
to  let  this  fly  to  your  head.  Anyway,  as  the  fam- 
ily has  always  known,  your  Uncle  James  Christie 
didn't  leave  his  letters  and  papers  to  his  great- 
niece  ;  he  merely  left  them !  True,  she  was  very 
close  to  him  in  his  last  days  and  he  had  always 
loved  and  trusted  her — " 

"But  there's  a  difference  between  trusting  a 
woman  and  trusting  her  with  your  desk  keys!" 
Uncle  Lancelot  interrupted.  "Uncle  James  ought 
to  have  known  a  thing  or  two  about  women  by 
that  time !" 

"Yet  we  must  realize  that  the  value  of  the  pos- 


38  AMAZING  GRACE 

session  was  considerable,  even  in  those  days," 
grandfather  argued  gently.  "We  must  not  blame 
his  great-niece  for  what  she  did.  James  Macken- 
zie Christie  had  caught  the  whole  fashionable 
world  on  the  tip  of  his  camel's-hair  brush  and 
pinioned  it  to  canvases  which  were  destined  to 
get  double-starred  notices  in  gui,de-books  for 
many  a  year  to  come,  and  the  correspondence  of 
kings  and  queens,  lords  and  ladies  made  a  mighty 
appeal  to  the  young  girl's  mind." 

"Then,  that's  a  sure  sign  they'd  be  popular 
once  again,"  said  Uncle  Lancelot.  "Of  course 
there's  a  degree  of  family  pride  to  be  considered, 
but  that  shouldn't  make  much  difference.  The 
Christies  have  always  had  pride  to  spare — now's 
the  time  to  let  some  of  it  slide !" 

Thus,  after  hours  of  time  and  miles  of  circling 
tentatively  around  the  battlements  of  Colmere 
Abbey — the  beautiful  old  place  which  had  been 
the  home  of  Lady  Frances  Webb — I  was  called 
back  with  a  stern  suddenness  to  my  place  in  the 
Herald  ofBce. 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  PROMISED  LAND    39 

"Can  you  think  of  anything  else?"  the  poet's 
voice  begged  humbly.  "I'm  trying  to  match  up 
just  plain  Ty'  this  time — but  I'm  dry." 

I  turned  to  him  forgivingly.  I  welcomed  any 
diversion. 

"Rye,  lie,  die,  sky, — why,  what's  the  matter 
with  your  think  tank?"  I  asked  him.  "They 
swarm!" 

But  before  he  could  thank  me,  or  apologize, 
the  voice  of  the  city  editor  was  in  the  doorway. 
He  himself  followed  his  rasping  tones,  and  as  he 
came  in  he  looked  backward  over  his  shoulder  at 
a  forlorn  dejected  face  outside.  He  looked  at  his 
watch  viciously,  then  snapped  the  case  as  if  it 
were  responsible  for  his  spleen. 

"Get  to  work  then  on  something  else,"  he 
growled.  "There's  no  use  spending  car  fare 
again  to  Loomis  to-day  that  I  can  see!  He's  an 
Englishman — and  of  course  he  kisses  a  teacup  at 
this  time  of  the  afternoon." 


CHAPTER  III 

NIP  AND  TUCK 

WHEN  I  reached  home  late  that  afternoon  I 
was  in  that  state  of  spring-time  restless- 
ness which  clamors  for  immediate  activity — when 
the  home-keeping  instinct  tries  to  make  you  be- 
lieve that  you'll  be  content  if  you  spend  a  little 
money  for  garden  seeds — but  a  reckless  demon  of 
extravagance  notifies  you  that  nothing  short  of 
salary  sacrificed  for  railroad  fare  is  going  to  avail. 

Grandfather  and  Uncle  Lancelot,  of  course, 
came  in  with  their  gratuitous  advice,  the  one  sug- 
gesting nasturtium  beds  with  geraniums  along  the 
borders — the  other  slyly  whispering  that  a  boat 
trip  from  Savannah  to  Boston  was  no  more  than 
I  deserved. 

Then,  reaching  home  in  this  frame  of  mind,  I 
40 


NIP  AND  TUCK  41 

was  confronted  with  two  very  perplexing  and 
unusual  conditions.  Mignon  was  being  played 
with  great  violence  in  the  front  parlor — and  all 
over  the  house  was  the  scent  of  burnt  yarn. 

"What's  up?"  I  demanded  of  mother,  as  she 
met  me  at  the  door — dressed  in  blue.  "Every- 
thing seems  mysterious  and  topsyturvy  to-day! 
I  believe  if  I  were  to  go  out  to  the  cemetery  I'd 
find  the  tombstones  nodding  and  whispering  to 
one  another." 

"Come  in  here!"  she  begged  in  a  Santa  Claus 
voice. 

I  went  into  the  parlor,  then  gave  a  little  shriek. 

"Mother!" 

I  have  neglected  to  state,  earlier  in  the  narra- 
tive, that  the  one  desire  of  my  heart  which  doesn't 
begin  with  H  was  a  player-piano !  It  was  there  in 
the  parlor,  at  that  moment,  shining,  and  singing 
its  wordless  song  about  the  citron-flower  land. 

"It's  the  very  one  we've  been  watching  through 
the  windows  up-town,"  she  said  in  a  delighted 
whisper. 


42  AMAZING  GRACE 

"But  did  you  get  it  as  a  prize?"  I  inquired, 
walking  into  the  dusky  room  and  shaking  hands 
with  my  betrothed,  who  rose  from  the  instrument 
and  made  way  for  me  to  take  possession.  "How 
came  it  here?" 

"I  had  it  sent  out — on — on  approval,"  she 
elucidated.  That  is,  her  words  took  the  form  of 
an  explanation,  but  her  voice  was  as  appealing  as 
a  Salvation  Army  dinner-bell,  just  before  Christ- 
mas. 

"On  approval  ?    But  why,  please  ?" 

"Because  I  want  you  to  get  used  to  having  the 
things  you  want,  darling!" 

Then,  to  keep  from  laughing — or  crying — I 
ran  toward  the  door. 

"What  is  that  burning?"  I  asked,  sniffing  sus- 
piciously. 

It  was  a  vaguely  familiar  scent — scorching 
dress-goods — and  suggestive  of  the  awful  feeling 
which  comes  to  you  when  you've  stood  too  close 
to  the  fire  in  your  best  coat-suit — or  the  com- 
fortable sensation  on  a  cold  night,  when  you're 


NIP  AND  TUCK  43 

preparing  to  wrap  up  your  feet  in  a  red-hot  flan- 
nel petticoat. 

"What  is  it?    Tell  the  truth,  mother!" 

But  she  wouldn't. 

"It's  your  brown  tweed  skirt,  Grace,"  Guilford 
finally  explained,  as  my  eyes  begged  the  secret 
of  them  both.  They  frequently  had  secrets  from 
me. 

"My  brown  tweed  skirt?" 

"It 'was  as  baggy  at  the  knees  as  if  you'd  done 
nothing  all  winter  but  pray  in  it !"  mother  whim- 
pered in  a  frightened  voice.  "I've — I've  burned 
it  up!" 

For  a  moment  I  was  silent. 

"But  what  shall  I  tramp  in?"  I  finally  asked 
severely.  "What  can  I  walk  out  the  Waverley 
Pike  in?" 

Then  mother  took  fresh  courage. 

"You're  not  going  to  walk!"  she  answered 
triumphantly.  "You're  going  to  ride — in  your 
very — own — electric — coupe!  Here's  the  cata- 
logue." 


44  AMAZING  GRACE 

She  scrambled  about  for  a  book  on  a  table 
near  at  hand — and  I  began  to  see  daylight. 

"Oh,  a  player-piano,  and  an  electric  coupd — 
all  in  one  day!  I  see!  My  fairy  godmother — 
who  was  old  Aunt  Patricia,  and  she  looked  ex- 
actly like  one — has  turned  the  pumpkin  into  a 
gold  coach !  You  two  plotters  have  been  putting 
your  heads  together  to  have  me  get  rich  quick 
and  gracefully!" 

"We  understand  that  this  stroke  of  fortune  is 
going  to  make  a  great  change  in  your  life,  Grace," 
Guilford  said  gravely.  He  was  always  grave — 
and  old.  The  only  way  you  could  tell  his  de- 
meanor from  that  of  a  septuagenarian  was  that 
he  didn't  drag  his  feet  as  he  walked. 

"  'Stroke  of  fortune?'  "  I  repeated. 

"The  Coburn — "  mother  began. 

"Colt — "  he  reenforced,  then  they  both  hesi- 
tated, and  looked  at  me  meaningly. 

I  gave  a  hysterical  laugh. 

"You  and  mother  have  counted  your  Coburn- 
Colts  before  they  were  hatched!"  I  exclaimed 


NIP  AND  TUCK  45 

wickedly,  sitting  down  and  looking  over  the  music 
rolls.  I  did  want  that  player-piano  tremendously 
— although  I  had  about  as  much  use  for  an  elec- 
tric coupe,  under  my  present  conditions  in  life,  as 
I  had  for  a  perambulator. 

"Grace,  you're — indelicate!"  mother  said,  her 
voice  trembling.  "Guilford's  a  man!" 

"A  man's  a  man — especially  a  Kentuckian!"  I 
answered.  "You're  not  shocked  at  my  mention 
of  colts  andj — and  things,  are  you,  Guilford?" 

My  betrothed  sat  down  and  lifted  from  the 
bridge  of  his  nose  that  badge  of  civilization — a 
pair  of  rimless  glasses.  He  polished  them  with 
a  dazzling  handkerchief,  then  replaced  the  hand- 
kerchief into  the  pocket  of  the  most  faultless  coat 
ever  seen.  He  smoothed  his  already  well-disci- 
plined hair,  and  brushed  away  a  speck  of  dust 
from  the  toe  of  his  shoe.  From  head  to  foot  he 
fairly  bristled  with  signs  of  civic  improvement. 

"I  am  shocked  at  your  reception  of  your 
mother's  kind  thoughtfulness,"  he  said. 

He  waited  a  little  while  before  saying  it,  for 


46  AMAZING  GRACE 

hesitation  was  his  way  of  showing  disapproval. 
Yet  you  must  not  get  the  impression  from  this 
that  Guilford  was  a  bad  sort!  Why,  no  woman 
could  ride  in  an  elevator  with  him  for  half  a 
minute  without  realizing  that  he  was  the  flower- 
of-chivalry  sort  of  man!  He  always  had  a  little 
way  of  standing  back  from  a  woman,  as  if  she 
were  too  sacred  to  be  approached,  and  in  her  pres- 
ence he  had  a  habit  of  holding  his  hat  clasped 
firmly  against  the  buttons  of  his  coat.  You  can 
forgive  a  good  deal  in  a  man  if  he  keeps  his  hat 
off  all  the  time  he's  talking  to  you ! 

"'Shocked?'"  I  repeated. 

"Your  mother  always  plans  for  your  happiness, 
Grace." 

"Of  course!  Don't  you  suppose  I  know  that?" 
I  immediately  asked  in  an  injured  tone.  It  is  al- 
ways safe  to  assume  an  injured  air  when  you're 
arguing  with  a  man,  for  it  gives  him  quite  as 
much  pleasure  to  comfort  you  as  it  does  to  hurt 
you. 


NIP  AND  TUCK  47 

"I  didn't — mean  anything!"  he  hastened  to  as- 
sure me. 

"Guilford  merely  jumped  at  the  chance  of 
your  freeing  yourself  of  this  newspaper  slavery," 
mother  interceded.  "You  know  what  a  humilia- 
tion it  is  to  him — just  as  it  is  to  me  and  to  every 
member  of  the — Christie  family." 

My  betrothed  nodded  so  violently  in  acquies- 
cence that  his  glasses  flew  off  in  space. 

"You  know  that  I  am  a  Kentuckian  in  my  way 
of  regarding  women,  Grace,"  he  plead.  "I  can't 
bear  to  see  them  step  down  from  the  pedestal  that 
nature  ordained  for  them!" 

I  turned  and  looked  him  over — from  the  crown 
of  his  intensely  aristocratic  fair  head  to  the  tip  of 
his  aristocratic  slim  foot. 

"A  Kentuckian?" 

"Certainly!" 

"A  Kentuckian?"  I  repeated  reminiscently. 
"Why,  Guilford  Blake,  you  ought  to  be  olive- 
skinned — and  black-eyed — and  your  shoes  ought 


48  AMAZING  GRACE 

to  turn  up  at  the  toes — and  your  head  ought  to  be 
covered  by  a  red  fez — and  you  ought  to  sit  smok- 
ing through  a  water-bottle  of  an  evening,  in  front 
of  your — your — " 

"Grace!"  stormed  mother,  rising  suddenly  to 
her  feet.  "I  will  not  have  you  say  such  things !" 

"What  things?"  I  asked,  drawing  back  in  hurt 
surprise. 

"H — harems!"  she  uttered  in  a  blushing  whis- 
per, but  Guilford  caught  the  word  and  squared 
his  shoulders  importantly. 

"But,  I  say,  Grace,"  he  interrupted,  his  face 
showing  that  mixture  of  anger  and  pleased  vanity 
which  a  man  always  shows  when  you  tell  him 
that  he's  a  dangerous  tyrant,  or  a  bold  Don  Juan 
— or  both.  "You  don't  think  I'm  a  Turk — do 
you?" 

"I  do." 

He  sighed  wistfully. 

"If  I  were,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head,  "I'd 
have  caught  you — and  veiled  you — long  before 
this," 


NIP  AND  TUCK  49 

I  looked  at  him  intently. 

"You  mean—" 

"That  I  shouldn't  have  let  you  delay  our  mar- 
riage this  way!  Why  should  you,  pray,  when 
my  financial  affairs  have  changed  so  in  the  last 
year?" 

I  rose  from  my  place  beside  the  new  piano, 
breaking  gently  into  his  plea. 

"It  isn't  that !"  I  attempted  to  explain,  but  my 
voice  failed  drearily.  "You  ought  to  know  that 
— finances  hadn't  anything  to  do  with  it.  I 
haven't  kept  from  marrying  you  all  these  years 
because  we  were  both  so  poor — then,  last  year 
when  you  inherited  your  money — I  didn't  keep 
from  marrying  you  because  you  were  so  rich !" 

"Then,  what  is  it?"  he  asked  gravely,  and 
mother  looked  on  as  eagerly  for  my  answer  as  he 
did.  This  is  one  advantage  about  a  life-long  be- 
trothal. It  gets  to  be  a  family  institution.  Or 
is  that  a  disadvantage? 

"I — don't  know,"  I  confessed,  settling  back 
weakly. 


50  AMAZING  GRACE 

"I  don't  think  you  do!"  mother  observed  with 
considerable  dryness. 

"Well,  this  business  of  your  getting  to  be  a 
famous  compiler  of  literature  may  help  you  get 
your  bearings,"  Guilford  kept  on,  after  an  awk- 
ward little  pause.  "You  have  always  said  that 
you  wished  to  exercise  your  own  wings  a  little 
before  we  married,  and  I  have  given  in  to  you — 
although  I  don't  know  that  it's  right  to  humor  a 
woman  in  these  days  and  times.  Really,  I  don't 
know  that  it  is." 

"Oh,  you  don't?" 

"No — I  don't.  But  we're  not  discussing  that 
now,  Grace!  What  I'm  trying  to  get  at  is  that 
this  offer  means  a  good  deal  to  you.  Of  course, 
it  is  only  the  beginning  of  your  career — for  these 
fellows  will  think  up  other  things  for  you  to  do — 
and  it  will  give  you  a  way  of  earning  money  that 
won't  take  you  up  a  flight  of  dirty  office  stairs 
every  day.  Understand,  I  mean  for  just  a  short 
while — as  long  as  you  insist  upon  earning  your 
own  living." 


NIP  AND  TUCK  51 

"And  the  honor !"  mother  added.  "You  could 
have  your  pictures  in  good  magazines!'' 

I  stifled  a  yawn,  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  con- 
flict had  made  me  nervous  and  weary. 

"At  all  events,  I  must  decide!"  I  exclaimed, 
starting  again  to  my  feet.  "Somehow,  the  office 
atmosphere  isn't  exactly  conducive  to  deep 
thought — and  I've  had  so  little  time  since  morn- 
ing to  get  away  by  myself  and  thresh  matters 
out." 

Mother  looked  at  me  incredulously. 

"Will  you  please  tell  me  just  what  you  mean, 
Grace?"  she  asked. 

"I  mean  that  I  must  get  away — I've  imagined 
that  I  ought  to  take  some  serious  thought,  weigh 
the  matter  well,  so  to  speak — before  I  write  to  the 
Coburn-Colt  Publishing  Company.  In  other 
words,  I  have  to  decide." 

"Decide  ?"  mother  repeated,  her  face  filled  with 
piteous  amazement.  "Decide?" 

"Decide?"  Guilford  said,  taking  up  the  strain 
complainingly. 


52  AMAZING  GRACE 

"If  you'll  excuse  me !"  I  answered,  starting  to- 
ward the  door,  then  turning  with  an  effort  at 
nonchalance,  for  their  sakes,  to  wave  them  a  little 
adieu.  "Suppose  you  keep  on  playing  'Knowest 
thou  the  land  where  the  citron-flower  blooms,' 
Guilford — for  I  am  filled  with  wanderlust  right 
now,  and  this  music  will  help  out  Uncle  Lancelot's 
presentation  of  the  matter  considerably!" 

"What?" 

"I'm  going  to  listen  to  the  voices,"  I  explained 
"All  day  long  grandfather  and  Uncle  Lancelot 
have  been  busy  making  the  fur  fly  in  my  con- 
science !" 

Mother  darted  across  the  room  and  caught  my 
hand. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  have  scruples 
— scruples — Grace  Christie  ?" 

She  couldn't  have  hated  smallpox  worse — in 
me. 

"Honest  Injun,  I  don't  know!"  I  admitted. 
"Of  course,  it  does  seem  absurd  to  ponder  over 
what  a  family  row  might  be  raised  in  the  Sev- 


NIP  AND  TUCK       .  53 

enth  Circle  of  Nirvana  by  the  publication  of  these 
old  love-letters,  but — " 

"James  Mackenzie  Christie  died  in  1849,"' she 
declared  vehemently.  "Absurd!  It  is  insane!" 

"That's  what  the  Uncle  Lancelot  part  of  my  in- 
telligence keeps  telling  me,"  I  laughed.  "But — 
good  heavens !  you  just  ought  to  hear  the  grand- 
father argument." 

"What  does  he — what  does  that  silly  Salem 
conscience  of  yours  say  against  the  publication  of 
the  letters  ?"  she  asked  grudgingly. 

I  sat  down  again. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  ?"  I  began  good-naturedly,  for 
I  saw  that  mother  was  at  the  melting  point — melt- 
ing into  tears,  however,  not  assent.  "Whenever 
I  want  to  do  anything  I'm  not  exactly  sure  of, 
these  two  provoking  old  gentlemen  come  into  the 
room — the  council-chamber  of  my  heart — and 
begin  their  post-mortem  warfare.  Grandfather 
is  white-bearded  and  serene,  while  Uncle  Lancelot 
looks  exactly  as  an  Italian  tenor  ought  to  look — 
and  never  does." 


54  AMAZING  GRACE 

"And  you  look  exactly  like  him,"  mother 
snapped  viciously.  "Nothing  about  you  resembles 
your  grandfather  except  your  brow  and  eyes." 

"I  know  that,"  I  answered  resignedly.  "Hasn't 
some  one  said  that  the  upper  part  of  my  face  is  as 
loftly  as  a  Byronic  thought — and  the  lower  as 
devilish  as  a  Byronic  deed?" 

Neither  of  them  smiled,  but  Guilford  stirred  a 
little. 

"Go  on  with  your  argument,  Grace/'  he  urged 
patiently.  He  was  always  patient. 

"I'm  going!"  I  answered.  "All  day  grand- 
father has  been  telling  me  what  I  akeady  know- 
that  the  Coburn-Colt  Company  doesn't  want 
those  letters  of  James  Christie's  because  they  are 
literary,  or  beautiful,  or  historical,  but  simply 
and  solely  because  they  are  bad!  They'll  make  a 
good-seller  because  they're  the  thing  the  public 
demands  right  now.  Lady  Frances  Webb  was  a 
married  woman!" 

"Nonsense,"  mother  interrupted,  with  a  blush. 
"The  public  doesn't  demand  bad  things!  There 


NIP  AND  TUCK  55 

is  merely  a  craze  for  intimate,  biographical  mat- 
ter— told  in  the  first  person." 

"I  know,"  I  admitted  humbly.  "This  is  what 
distinguishes  a  human  from  an  inhuman  docu- 
ment." 

"The  craze  demands  a  simple  straightforward 
narrative — "  Guilford  began,  then  hesitated. 

"In  literature  this  is  the  period  of  the  great  7 
Am,'  "  I  broke  in.  "People  want  the  secrets  of  a 
writer's  soul,  rather  than  the  tricks  of  his  vocabu- 
lary, I  know." 

"Well,  good  lord — you  wouldn't  be  giving  the 
twentieth  century  any  more  of  these  people's  souls 
than  they  themselves  gave  to  the  early  nine- 
teenth," he  argued  scornfully.  "She  put  his  por- 
trait into  every  book  she  ever  wrote — and  he  an- 
nexed her  face  in  the  figure  of  every  saint — and 
sinner — he  painted !" 

"Well,  that  was  because  they  couldn't  see  any 
other  faces,"  I  defended. 

"Bosh!" 

"But  Lady  Frances  Webb  was  a  good  woman," 


56  AMAZING  GRACE 

mother  insisted  weakly.  "She  had  pre-Victorian 
ideas!  She  sent  her  lover  across  seas,  because 
she  felt  that  she  must!  Why,  the  publication  of 
these  letters  would  do  good,  not  harm." 

"They  would  shame  the  present-day  idea  of 
'affinity'  right,"  said  Guilford. 

I  nodded  my  head,  for  this  was  the  same 
theory  that  Uncle  Lancelot  had  been  whispering 
in  my  ears  since  the  postman  blew  his  whistle  that 
morning.  And  yet — 

"Maybe  you  two — don't  exactly  understand 
the  import  of  those  letters  as  I  do,"  I  suggested, 
sorry  and  ashamed  before  the  gaze  of  their  prac- 
tical eyes.  "But  to  me  they  mean  so  much!  I 
have  always  loved  James  Christie  and — his  Un- 
attainable. I  can  feel  for  them,  and — " 

"And  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  going  to 
give  way  to  an  absurd  fancy  now — a  ridiculous, 
far-fetched,  namby-pamby,  quixotic  fancy?" 
mother  asked,  in  a  tone  of  horror. 

"I — I'm — afraid  so!"  I  stammered. 

"And  miss  this  chance — for  all  the  things  you 


NIP  AND  TUCK  57 

want  most?  The  very  things  you're  toiling  day 
and  night  to  get?" 

"And  put  off  the  prospect  of  our  marriage?" 
Guilford  demanded.  "I  had  hoped  that  this 
business  transaction  would  satisfy  the  unaccount- 
able desire  you  seem  to  have  for  independence — 
that  after  you  had  circled  about  a  little  in  the 
realm  of  emancipated  women  and  their  strained 
notions  of  what  constitutes  freedom,  you'd  see 
the  absurdity  of  it  all  and — come  to  me." 

"I  am  awfully  sorry,  Guilford,"  I  answered, 
dropping  my  eyes,  for  I  knew  that  "freedom," 
"independence"  and  "emancipation"  had  noth- 
ing on  earth  to  do  with  my  delayed  marriage — 
and  I  knew  that  I  was  doing  wrong  not  to  say  so. 
"I  am  awfully  sorry  to  disappoint  you." 

"Then  you  have  decided  finally?"  mother 
asked  in  a  suspicious  voice. 

"I  believe  I  have,"  I  answered.  "Oh,  please 
don't  look  at  me  that  way — and  please  don't  cry ! 
I  can't  help  it !" 

"It  is  preposterous,"  Guilford  said  shortly. 


58  AMAZING  GRACE 

"But  you  don't — understand !"  I  cried,  turning 
to  him  pleadingly.  "You  don't  know  what  it  is 
to  feel  as  I  feel  about  those  lovers — those  people 
who  had  no  happiness  in  this  world — and  are 
haunted  and  tormented  by  curiosity  in  their  very 
graves! — don't  you  suppose  I  want  to  do  the 
thing  you  and  mother  want  me  to  do?  Of 
course,  I  do !  I  want  this — this  new  piano — and 
another  brown  tweed  skirt  that  doesn't  bag  at  the 
knees — and  I  want — so  many  things!" 

"Then  why  in  the  name  of "  he  began. 

"Because  I  won'*!"  I  told  him  flatly.  "Call  it 
conscience — fancy,  or  what  you  will! — I  have 
those  two  people  in  my  power — their  secrets  are 
right  here  in  my  hands!  And  I'm  not  going  to 
give  them  away!" 

"Grace,  you  a-maze  me !"  mother  sobbed. 

But  Guilford  rose  tranquilly  and  reached  for 
his  hat. 

"Any  woman  who  has  a  conscience  like  that 
ought  to  cauterize  it — with  a  curling-iron — and 
get  rid  of  it,"  he  observed  dryly. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY 

THAT  night  I  went  to  my  bedroom  and  pulled 
open  the  top  of  an  old-fashioned  desk  stand- 
ing in  the  corner.  Except  for  this  desk  there  was 
not  another  unnecessary  piece  of  furniture  in  the 
apartment,  for  I  like  a  cell-like  place  to  sleep.  I 
consider  that  fresh  air  and  a  clear  conscience 
ought  to  be  the  chief  adjuncts — for  a  cluttered- 
up,  luxurious  bedroom  always  reminds  me  of 
Camille — and  tuberculosis. 

"And  all  this  fuss  about  a  few  little  faded 
wisps  of  paper!" 

I  sat  down  before  the  desk,  after  I  had  loosed 
my  hair — which  is  that  very,  very  black,  that  is 
the  Hibernian  accompaniment  to  blue  eyes — and 
had  slipped  my  slippers  on. 

59 


60  AMAZING  GRACE 

"You  have  put  me  to  considerable  trouble  to- 
day, Lady  Frances." 

Her  portrait  was  hanging  there — a  small, 
cabinet-sized  picture,  in  a  battered  gold  frame. 
Her  lover  had  succeeded  in  making  her  face  on 
canvas  very  beautiful — with  the  exaggerated 
beauty  of  eyes  and  mouth  which  all  portraits  of 
that  period  show.  Her  brow  was  fine  and 
thoughtful,  irradiating  the  face  with  intelligence, 
yet  I  never  looked  at  her  without  having  a  feeling 
that  I  was  infinitely  wiser  than  she. 

Isn't  it  queer  that  we  have  this  feeling  of 
superiority  over  the  people  in  old  portraits — just 
because  they  are  dead  and  we  are  living?  We 
open  an  ancient  book  of  engravings,  and  say: 
"Poor  little  Mary  Shelley!  Simple  little  Jane 
Austen!  Naughty  little  Nell  Gwynne !"- -There's 
only  one  pictured  lady  of  my  acquaintance  who 
smiles  down  my  latter-day  wisdom  as  being  a 
futile  upstart  thing.  I  can't  pity  her!  Oh,  no! 
Nor  endure  her  either,  for  she's  Mona  Lisa ! 


THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY          61 

I  had  always  had  this  maternal  protectiveness 
in  my  attitude  toward  Lady  Frances  Webb,  and 
to-night  it  was  so  keen  that  I  could  have  tucked 
her  in  bed  and  told  her  fairy  tales  to  soothe  away 
the  trembling  fright  she  must  have  endured  all 
that  day.  Instead  of  doing  this,  however,  I 
satisfied  myself  with  reading  some  of  the  letters 
over  again.  Isn't  it  a  pity  that  above  every  writ- 
ing-desk devoted  to  inter-sex  correspondence 
there  is  not  a  framed  warning:  "Beyond 
Platonic  Friendship  Lies — Alimony!" 

Anyway,  Lady  Frances  and  James  Christie 
tried  the  medium  ground  for  a  while.  Over  in  a 
large  pigeonhole,  far  away  from  the  rest,  was  a 
packet  of  letters  tied  with  a  strong  twine.  They 
were  the  uninteresting  ones,  because  they  were 
muzzled.  The  handwriting  was  the  same  as  that 
of  the  others — dainty,  last-century  chirography, 
as  delicate  and  curling  as  a  baby's  pink  fingers — 
but  I  never  read  them,  for  I  don't  care  for  muz- 
zled things.  Gossip  about  Lady  Jersey — Marl- 


62  AMAZING  GRACE 

borough  House — the  cold-blooded  ire  of  Wil- 
liam Lamb — all  this  held  but  little  charm — com- 
pared with  the  other. 

"Not  you — not  to-night,"  I  decided,  pushing 
them  aside  quickly.  "I've  got  to  have  good  pay 
for  my  pains  of  this  day!" 

I  sought  another  compartment,  where  a  batch 
huddled  together — a  carefully  selected  batch. 
They  were  as  many,  and  as  clinging  in  their  con- 
tact with  one  another,  as  early  kisses.  I  took 
up  the  first  one. 

"Dear  Big  Man" —  it  began. 

"It  has  been  weeks  and  weeks  now  since  I  have 
seen  you!  If  it  were  not  that  you  lived  in  that 
terrible  London  and  I  in  this  lonely  country,  I 
should  be  too  proud  to  remind  you  of  the  time, 
for  I  should  expect  you  to  be  the  one  to  com- 
plain. 

"Surely  it  is  because  of  this  that  I  now  hate 
London  so!  It  keeps  this  knowledge  of  separa- 
tion— this  sense  of  dreary  waiting — from  burn- 
ing into  your  heart,  as  it  does  into  mine ! 


THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY          63 

"There  you  are  kept  too  busy  to  think — but  here 
I  can  do  nothing  else! — Or  perhaps  I  am  quite 
wrong,  and  it  is  not  a  matter  of  London  and 
Lancashire,  after  all,  but  the  more  primal  one  of 
your  being  a  man,  and  my  being  a  woman !  Do 
I  love  the  more?  I  wonder?  And  yet,  I  don't 
think  that  I  care  much!  I  am  willing  to  love 
more  abjectly  than  any  woman  ever  loved  before 
— if  you  care  for  me  just  a  little  in  return." 

(I  always  felt  very  wise  and  maternal  at  this 
point.) 

"You  were  an  awful  goose,  Lady  Frances!"  I 
said.  "This  is  a  mistake  that  /  have  never 
made!" 

"Still,  I  am  tormented  by  thoughts  of  you  in 
London,"  the  letter  kept  on.  "I  think  of  you — 
there — as  a  lion.  It  presses  down  upon  me,  this 
recollection  that  you  are  James  Christie,  the  great 
artist,  and  the  only  release  from  the  torture  is 
when  I  go  alone  into  the  library  and  sit  down 
before  the  fire.  The  two  chairs  are  there — those 
two  that  were  there  that  day — and  then  I  can  for- 


64  AMAZING  GRACE 

get  about  the  lion.  'Jim — Jim!'  I  whisper— 
'just  my  lover!' 

"Then  your  face  comes — it  has  to  come,  or  I 
could  never  be  good!  Your  rugged  face  that 
speaks  of  great  forests  which  have  been  your 
home — the  fierce  young  freedom  which  has  nur- 
tured you — and  the  glorious  uplift  you  have 
achieved  above  all  that  is  small  and  weak ! 

"You  have  asked  me  a  thousand  times  why  I 
love  you,  but  I  have  never  known  what  to  say — 
because  I  love  you  for  so  many  things — until 
now,  when  I  have  nothing  but  memories — and 
the  ever-present  sight  of  your  absent  face.  And 
now  I  don't  know  why  I  love  you,  but  I  know 
what  I  love  best  about  you.  Shall  I  tell  you — 
though  of  course  you  know  already!  It  is  not 
your  talent — wonderful  as  it  is — for  there  have 
been  other  artists;  nor  your  terrible  charm  with 
its  power  to  lure  women  away  from  duty — for 
England  is  full  of  fascinating  men;  nor  your 
sweetness — and  I  think  the  first  time  I  saw  you 
smile  I  sounded  the  depths  of  this — it  is  not  any 


THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY          65 

of  these,  dear  heart!  Not  any  of  these!  I  love 
best  the  strength  of  you  which  you  use  to  control 
the  charm — the  untamed  force  of  your  personality 
which  makes  your  talent  seem  just  an  incident — • 
and  the  big,  big  virility  of  you! 

"Do  you  think  for  a  moment  that  you  look  like 
an  artist?  Half-civilized  you?  Why,  you  are  a 
woodsman,  dear  love — but  not  a  hunter!  You 
could  never  kill  living  things  for  the  joy  of  see- 
ing them  die ! 

"You  look  as  if  you  had  spent  all  your  life  in 
the  woods,  doing  hard  tasks  patiently — a  wood- 
cutter, or  a  charcoal  burner!  Ah,  a  charcoal 
burner!  A  man  who  has  had  to  grip  life  with 
bared  hands  and  wrest  his  bread  from  grudging 
circumstances.  This  is  what  you  are,  Jim,  to  my 
heart's  eyes.  You  are  a  primal  creature — simple- 
souled,  great-bodied,  and  your  mind  is  given  over 
to  naked  truth. 

"But  all  the  time  you  are  a  famous  artist — 
and  London's  idol !  Your  studio  in  St.  James's 
Street  is  the  lounging-place  for  curled  darlings! 


66  AMAZING  GRACE 

The  hardest  task  that  your  hands  perform  is  over 
the  ugly  features  of  a  fat  duchess! — How  can 
you,  Jim?  Why  don't  you  come  away?  You 
are  a  man  first,  an  artist  afterward — and  it  is  the 
man  that  I  love! 

"And,  Jim,  do  you  know  how  much  I  love  you  ? 
Do  you  know  how  your  face  leads  me  on  ? — It  is 
your  face  I  must  have  now,  darling.  Portrait 
of  the  Artist,  by  Himself,  is  a  title  I  have  often 
smiled  over,  wondering  how  a  man  could  be  in- 
duced to  paint  his  own  features,  but  now  I  know ! 
It  is  always  because  some  woman  has  so  clamor- 
ously demanded  it — a  woman  who  loved  him! 
What  else  can  so  entirely  satisfy — and  when  will 
you  send  it  to  me  ?" 

When  I  came  to  the  end  I  was  sorry,  for  I  had 
such  a  way  of  getting  en  rapport  with  her  senti- 
ments that  I  eyed  the  next  express  wagon  I 
passed,  eagerly,  to  see  if  it  could  possibly  be 
bringing  the  Portrait  of  the  Artist,  by  Himself! 

And  on  this  occasion  I  reread  a  portion  of  the 
letter. 


THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY          67 

"Your  face — your  rugged  face — or  I  could 
never  be  good !" 

The  picture  of  a  rugged  face  was  haunting  me, 
and  after  a  moment  a  sudden  thought  came  to 
me. 

"Why,  that's  what  /  should  like!" 

I  had  the  grace  to  feel  ashamed,  of  course, 
especially  as  I  recalled  how  mother  and  Guilford 
had  tormented  me  that  afternoon  to  know  why  I 
wouldn't  marry — and  I  found  the  answer  in  this 
sudden  discovery.  Still,  that  didn't  keep  me  from 
pursuing  the  subject. 

"A  rugged  face — great  forests — fierce  freedom 
— glorious  uplift! — Oh,  Man!  Man!  Where  are 
you — and  where  is  your  great  forest? — That's 
exactly  what  I  want !" 

I  turned  back  to  the  desk,  after  a  while,  and 
still  allowing  my  mind  to  circle  away  from  the 
business  at  hand  somewhat,  I  drew  out  another 
letter.  It  was  short — and  troubled.  The  dear, 
little,  lady-like  writing  ran  off  at  a  tangent. 

"Yes,    I    have    seen    the    picture!     Next    to 


68 

Murillo's  Betrothal  of  St.  Catherine —the  face  is 
the  loveliest  thing  I  have  ever  seen  on  canvas. 

"Of  course  it  is  idealized — yet  so  absurdly  like 
that  they  tell  me  all  Mayfair  is  staring!  This 
talk— this  stirring-up  of  what  has  been  sleeping 

will  make  it  a  thousand  times  harder  for  us 

ever  to  see  each  other,  yet  I  am  glad  you  did  it ! 

"They  are  saying — Mayfair — that  your 
'making  a  pageant  of  a  bleeding  heart'  is  as  in- 
delicate as  Caroline  Lamb's  Glenarvon!  If  peo- 
ple are  going  to  be  in  love  wickedly  at  least  they 
ought  not  to  write  books  about  it — nor  paint  pic- 
tures of  it!  .  .  .  Oh,  beloved,  let  us  pray 
that  we  may  always  keep  bitterness  out  of  our 
portraits  of  each  other!" 

The  letter  burned  my  fingers,  for  the  pen 
marks  were  quick  and  jagged — like  electric  sparks 
— and  I  felt  the  pain  that  had  sent  them  out ;  so 
I  turned  back  to  others  of  the  batch — others  that 
I  knew  almost  by  heart,  yet  always  found  some- 
ing  new  in. 

"I  don't  know  that  it's  such  an  enviable  state, 


69 

after  all,  this  being  in  love,"  I  mused.  "It  seems 
to  me  it  consists  of — quite  a  mixture!  But,  of 
course,  it  will  take  Heaven  itself  to  solve  the 
problem  of  a  thornless  rose!" 

I  ran  my  finger  over  the  edges  of  the  impro- 
vised envelopes,  heavily  sealed  and  bearing  com- 
plicated foreign  stamping.  There  were  dozens 
of  them — many  only  the  common  garden  variety 
of  love-letters,  long-drawn  out,  confidential, 
reminiscent  or  hopeful,  as  the  case  might  be — and 
a  few  which  sounded  at  times  almost  light- 
hearted. 

"When  I  say  that  I  think  of  you  all  the  time 
I  am  not  so  original  as  my  critics  give  me  credit 
for  being,  dear  heart,"  she  wrote  in  one.  "Noth- 
ing else  in  the  annals  of  love-making  is  so  trite 
as  this,  but  when  I  explain  how  persistently  your 
image  is  before  me,  how  intricately  woven  with 
every  thought  of  the  future — how  inseparably 
linked  with  every  vision  of  happiness — you  will 
know  that  mine  is  no  light  nor  passing  attach- 
ment. 


7o  AMAZING  GRACE 

"If  I  give  you  one  foolish  example  of  this  will 
it  bore  you?  I've  written  you  before,  I  believe, 
that  this  spring  I  have  been  outdoors  all  the  time 
— riding  or  driving  about  the  country,  because 
the  mad  restlessness  of  thinking  about  you  drives 
me  out.  In  this  house,  in  these  gardens,  you  are 
so  constantly  present  that  I  can  do  nothing  but 
remember — then  I  go  away,  hoping  to  forget— 
and  what  happens? — I  go  into  a  castle — a  place 
where  you  have  never  been,  perhaps — and  before 
I  can  begin  talking  with  any  one,  or  think  of  any 
sensible  thing  to  say  the  thought  comes  to  me: 
'How  well  the  figure  of  my  lover  would  fit  in  with 
all  this  grandeur!  How  naturally  and  easily  he 
would  swing  through  these  great  rooms !' 

"Then,  early  some  mornings  I  ride  into  the 
village — past  cottages  that  look  so  humble  and 
happy  that  I  feel  my  heart  stifling  with  longing 
to  possess  one  of  them — and  you!  'How  happy 
I  could  be  living  there/  I  think,  'but — how 
tremendously  tall  and  stalwart  Jim  would  look 


THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY          71 

coming  in  through  this  low  doorway,  as  I  called 
him  to  supper!' 

"Then  I  spend  hours  and  hours  planning  the 
real  home  I  want  us  to  have,  dear  love  of  mine. 
I  don't  care  much  whether  it  is  a  castle  or  a  cot- 
tage, just  so  it  has  you  in  it — and  all  around  it 
must  be  the  sight  of  distant  hills!  These  for 
your  artist's  soul ! 

"You  and  a  hundred  distant  hills,  Jim !  Then 
days — and  nights,  and  nights  and  days — and 
summers  and  winters  of  joy! 

"Some  time  this  will  come  to  pass — it  must — 
and  we  shall  call  it  heaven!  And  we  shall  re- 
joice that  we  were  strong  to  keep  the  faith 
through  the  days  of  trial  and  longing  so  that  we 
could  reach  it  and  be  worthy  of  it. 

"And,  when  this  shall  come,  I  can  never  know 
fear  again — fear  that  London  will  make  you 
cease  to  love  me — that  some  other  woman  may 
gain  possession  of  you — that  the  artist  in  you 
may  crush  out  and  starve  the  lover.  There  will 


72  AMAZING  GRACE 

be  but  one  thought  of  fear  then,  and  that  will  be 
that  you  may  die  and  leave  me,  but  this  will  not 
be  hopeless,  for  I  too  can  die ! 

"Oh,  do  you  remember  that  first  day — that 
wonderful,  anguished,  bewildering  first  day — then 
that  night  when  I  kissed  you?  When  I  think  of 
sickening  fear  I  always  remember  that  time. 
Two  weeks  before  the  London  newspapers  had 
chronicled  your  visit  to  Colmere  Abbey  'to  paint 
the  portrait  of  the  novelist,  Lady  Frances  Webb/ 
but  you  were  deceiving  the  newspapers,  for  you 
had  lost  your  power  to  paint ! 

"It  was  quite  early  in  the  morning  of  that 
eighth  or  ninth  day  of  blessed  dalliance,  when  the 
canvas  still  showed  itself  accusingly  bare,  that  you 
threw  down  your  brush  and  declared  you  were 
going  back  to  London,  'because — because  Col- 
mere  Abbey  had  robbed  your  hands  of  their 
power.' 

"And  what  did  I  do  when  you  told  me  this 
terrible  thing?  I  said,  wickedly  and  without 


THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY  73 

shame,  'Would  you  go  away  and  leave  me  all 
alone  in  idleness?' 

"  'Idleness  ?'  you  repeated,  pretending  not  to 
understand. 

"  'Neither  can  I  do  any  work — since  you  came 
to  Colmere!' 

"You  stood  quite  still  beside  the  easel  for  a 
breathless  moment,  then: 

"  'Do  / — keep  you — from  working  ?'  you 
asked. 

"Your  face  tried  to  look  sorry  and  amazed,  but 
the  triumph  showed  through  and  glorified  your 
dear  eyes. 

"  'Then  certainly  I  must  go  away — at  once — 
to-day/  you  kept  on,  but  you  came  straight  across 
the  room  and  placed  your  hands  upon  my 
shoulders.  'Just  this  once — just  one  time,  sweet- 
heart, then  I'll  go  straight  away  and  never  see 
you  again!' 

"And  that  night,  true  to  your  promise,  you  did 
go  away,  but  I  followed  you  to  the  gates — and 


74  AMAZING  GRACE 

when  I  saw  horses  ready  saddled  there  to  take 
you  away  from  me,  the  high  resolves  I  had  made 
came  fluttering  to  earth.  I  put  my  hands  up  to 
your  face  and  kissed  you.  During  all  the  giddy 
joy  of  that  day's  confessional  I  had  kept  from 
doing  this,  but — not  when  I  saw  you  leaving! 

"  'I  wish  that  this  kiss  could  mark  your  cheek — 
and  let  all  the  world  know  that  you  are  mine,'  I 
whispered,  shivering  against  you  in  that  first  mad- 
ness of  fear  over  losing  you. 

"  'You've  made  a  mark !'  you  laughed  fondly. 
'A  mark  that  I  shall  carry  all  the  days  of  my  life.' 

"But  I  was  still  fearful. 

;  'You  may  know  that  you  are  marked,  but 
how  will  the  world — how  will  other  women  know 
that  you  are  mine  ?' 

( 'The  world  shall  know  it/  you  declared, 
brushing  back  my  hair  and  kissing  me  again. 
'There  will  never  be  another  woman  in  my  life — • 
and  some  day,  when  I  can  paint  your  portrait,  it 
will  certainly  know  then.  To  me  you  are  so 
very  beautiful.'  " 


THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY  75 

Another  letter  was  just  a  note,  addressed  to 
London,  and  evidently  written  in  great  haste  to 
catch  a  delayed  post-bag. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  that  orange  tree  of  ours — that 
you  and  I  planted  together  that  day — is  putting 
out  tiny  blossoms !  Do  you  suppose  it  is  a  happy 
omen,  Jim?  How  I  have  worked  with  it  through 
this  dreary  winter — and  now  to  think  that  it  is 
blooming! 

"Your  dear  hands  have  touched  it!  It  is  a 
living  thing  which  can  receive  my  caresses  and 
repay  their  tenderness  by  growing  tall  and  strong 
and  beautiful — like  you.  Do  you  wonder  that  I 
love  it? 

"When  you  come  again  I  shall  take  you  out 
to  see  it,  and  we  shall  walk  softly  up  to  the  shelf 
where  it  stands — so  carefully,  to  keep  from 
jarring  a  single  leaf — and  we  shall  separate  the 
branches,  still  very  carefully,  to  look  down  at  the 
little  new  stems.  And,  Jim — Jim — the  blossoms 
will  be  like  starry  young  eyes  looking  up  at  us! 
The  pink,  faintly-showing  glow  will  be  as  deli- 


76  AMAZING  GRACE 

cate  as  a  tiny  cheek,  when  sleep  has  flushed  it— 
and  the  petals  will  close  over  our  fingers  with  all 
the  clinging  softness  of  a  helpless  little  clutch ! 

"We  will  be  very  happy  for  a  little  while,  but, 
because  I  am  savage  »and  resentful  over  our  de- 
layed joy,  I  shall  cry  on  your  shoulder  and  say  it's 
cruel — cruel— that  you  and  I  have  only  this  plant 
to  love  together." 

After  this  came  two  or  three  more,  like  it,  then 
I  reached  for  one  which  brought  a  misty  wet- 
ness to  my  eyes.  The  lover  was  gone — quite 
gone — and  the  woman  had  seemed  to  feel  that 
they  would  meet  no  more. 

.  .  .  "At  other  times  I  remember  all  the 
months  which  have  gone  by  since  then — and  the 
miles  of  dark  water  which  roll  between  your 
land  and  mine.  God  pity  the  woman  who  has  a 
lover  across  the  sea! 

"Am  I  sorry  that  I  sent  you  away?  You  ask 
me  this — yet  how  can  you!  How  many  letters 
I  have  written,  bidding  you,  nay  begging  you  to 
come  back — how  many  times  have  I  dropped 


THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY          77 

them  into  the  post-bag  in  the  hall — then,  after  an 
hour's 'thought,  have  run  in  terror  and  snatched 
them  out  again! 

"I  am  trying  so  hard  to  be  good !  Can  I  hold 
out — just  a  little  while  longer?  I  am  going  to 
die  young,  remember,  and  that  is  the  one  hope 
which  consoles  me!  It  used  to  be  that  I  shrank 
from  the  medical  men  who  told  me  this — who 
told  me  with  their  pitying  eyes  and  grave  looks — 
but  now  I  welcome  their  gravity.  Sir  Humphrey 
Davy  has  written  a  letter  to  my  husband,  advis- 
ing him  to  send  me  off  to  Italy  for  this  incoming 
winter — but  I  shall  not  go!  'I  fear  that  dread 
phthisis  in  the  rigor  of  English  cold/  he  writes — 
but  for  me  it  can  not  come  too  soon ! 

"...  Yet  all  the  time  the  knowledge 
haunts  me  that  our  lives  are  passing!  I  can  not 
bear  it !  I  spend  the  hours  put  in  the  garden — 
where  the  sun-dial  tells  me — all  silently — of  the 
day's  wearing  on. 

"Since  you  went  away  I  can  not  listen  to  the 
sound  of  the  clock  in  the  hall.  That  chime — 


78  AMAZING  GRACE 

that  holy  trustful  chime — 'O  Lord,  our  God,  be 
Thou  our  Guide/  shames  the  unholy  prayer  on 
my  lips. 

"Then  the  clock  ticks,  ticks,  ticks — all  day — all 
night — on,  and  on,  and  on — to  remind  me  of  our 
hearts'  wearying  beats !  Does  this  thought  ever 
come  to  madden  you  ?  That  our  hearts  have  only 
so  many  times  to  throb  in  this  life — and  when  we 
are  apart  every  pulsation  is  wasted?" 

I  thrust  this  letter  back  into  its  place — then 
hastily  closed  down  the  desk.  The  sensation  of 
reading  a  thing  like  that  is  not  pleasant.  She 
had  written  with  an  awful,  azvful  pain  in  her 
heart — and  she  had  lived  before  the  days  of 
anesthetics ! 

"Women  don't  feel  things  like  that — now,"  I 
muttered,  as  I  crossed  the  room  and  lowered  the 
curtain.  "They — they  have  too  many  other 
things  to  divert  them,  I  suppose !" 

I  knew,  however,  that  I  was  judging  every- 
body by  myself,  and  certainly  /  had  never  known 
an  awful  hurt  like  that. 


THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY  79 

"Why,  I  could  listen  to  a  taximeter  tick — for 
a  whole  year — while  Guilford  was  away  from 
me,  and  I  don't  believe  it  would  make  me  ner- 
vous for  a  sight  of  him." 

I  was  considerably  disgusted  with  myself  for 
my  callousness  as  I  came  to  this  conclusion, 
however,  and  I  sat  down  in  the  window,  over- 
looking the  tiny  strip  of  rose-garden  to  think  it 
out.  Presently  I  crossed  the  room  again  to  the 
desk. 

"I'm  not  going  to  jest  at  scars — even  if  I 
haven't  felt  a  wound !"  I  decided,  once  and  for  al- 
ways. 

I  opened  the  desk  then  and  gathered  up  the 
letters,  packet  by  packet,  tying  them  into  one  big 
bundle. 

"Publish  these — heart-throbs !" 

I  was  so  furious  that  I  could  have  gagged  Uncle 
Lancelot  if  he  had  opened  his  mouth — which  he 
didn't  dare  do!  In  this  respect  he  and  grand- 
father are  very  much  like  living  relatives.  They'll 
argue  with  you  through  ninety-nine  years  of  in- 


8o  AMAZING  GRACE 

decision,  but  once  you've  made  up  your  mind  ir- 
revocably they  close  their  lips  into  a  sullen  si- 
lence— saving  their  breath  for  "I  told  you  so!" 

"I  don't  see  how  anybody  could  have  thought 
of  such  blasphemy!"  I  kept  on.  "It  would  be 
like  a  vivisection!  That's  what  people  want 
though,  nowadays — they  won't  have  just  a  book! 
They  want  to  be  present  at  a  clinic ! — They  want 
to  see  others'  hearts  writhe — because  they  have 
no  feelings  of  their  own!" 

Then,  after  my  thoughts  had  had  time  to  get 
away  from  the  past  up  into  the  present  and 
project  themselves,  somewhat  spitefully,  into  the 
future,  I  made  another  decision,  slamming  the 
desk  lid  to  accentuate  it. 

"I  shall  not  publish  them  myself — nor  ever 
give  anybody  else  a  chance  to  publish  them!"  I 
declared.  "By  rights  they  are  not  really  mine! 
I  am  just  their  guardian,  because  Aunt  Patricia 
couldn't  take  them  on  her  journey  with  her — 
and  some  day  I  shall  take  them  on  a  journey 
with  me.  To  Colmere  Abbey — that  dream- 


THE  QUALITY. OF  MERCY          81 

house  of  mine!  That's  the  thing  to  do!  And 
burn  them  on  the  hearth  in  the  library,  where  she 
likely  burned  his — if  she  did  burn  them!  Of 
course  I  can't  run  the  risk  of  what  the  next  gen- 
eration might  do!" 

This  last  thought  tormented  me  as  I  fell  asleep. 

"No,  I  can  not  hand  those  letters  down  to 
my  daughters,"  I  decided  drowsily,  being  in  that 
hazy  state  where  the  mind  traverses  unheard-of 
fields — unheard-of  for  waking  thought — and 
queer  little  twisting  decisions  come.  "They 
would  never  be  able  to  understand !" 

I  was  aroused  by  this  hypothesis  into  sudden 
wake  fulness. 

"Of  course  they  could  not  understand — me  or 
my  feelings!"  I  muttered,  sitting  up  in  bed  and 
facing  the  darkness  defiantly.  "They  could  not 
— if — if  they  were  Guilford's  daughters,  too!" 


CHAPTER  V 

ET  TU,  BRUTE ! 

MY  first  waking  thought  the  next  morning 
had  nothing  on  earth  to  do  with  the  di- 
lemma of  the  day  before.  I  stretched  my  arms 
lazily,  then  a  little  shrinkingly,  as  I  remembered 
what  the  daily  grind  would  be.  There  was  to  be 
a  Flag  Day  celebration  of  the  Daughters  of  the 
American  Revolution — and  I  was  to  report 
Major  Coleman's  speech.  That's  why  I  shrank. 
I  am  not  a  society  woman. 

"D.  A.  R.,"  I  grumbled,  jumping  out  of  bed 
and  going  across  to  the  window  to  see  what  kind 
of  day  we  were  going  to  have. — "D-a-r-nf 

Anyway,  the  day  was  all  right,  and  after  wav- 
ing a  welcome  to  the  sun — whose  devout  wor- 
shiper I  am — I  rubbed  a  circle  of  dust  off  the 
82 


ET  TU,  BRUTE!  83 

mirror  and  looked  at  myself.  Every  woman  has 
distinctly  pretty  days — and  distinctly  homely 
ones;  and  usually  the  homely  ones  come  to  the 
front  viciously  when  you're  booked  for  some- 
thing extraordinary.  However,  this  proved  to 
be  one  of  my  good-looking  periods,  and  out  of 
sheer  gratitude  I  polished  off  the  whole  expanse 
of  the  mirror.  Incidentally,  I  am  not  an  abso- 
lutely dustless  housekeeper,  in  spite  of  my  craze 
for  simplicity.  I  consider  that  there  are  only 
two  things  that  need  be  kept  passionately  clean 
in  this  life — the  human  skin  and  the  refrigerator. 

"Are  you  going  to  dress  for  the  fete — before 
you  go  to  the  office?"  mother  inquired  rebellious- 
ly,  as  she  saw  me  arranging  my  hair  with  that 
look  of  masculine  expectation  later  on  in  the 
morning.  "Why  don't  you  get  your  other  work 
off,  then  come  back  home  and  dress?" 

"Well — because,"  I  answered  indifferently. 

"But  the  Sojis  of  the  Revolution  are  going  to 
meet  with  the  Daughters !"  she  warned. 

"I  know  that." 


84  AMAZING  GRACE 

As  if  to  demonstrate  my  possession  of  this 
knowledge  I  turned  away  from  the  mirror  and 
displayed  my  festive  charms.  A  light  gray  coat- 
suit  had  been  converted  into  the  deception  of  a 
gala  garment  by  the  addition  of  Irish  lace;  and 
mother,  looking  it  over  contemptuously,  went 
into  her  own  bedroom  for  a  moment,  and  came 
back  carrying  her  diamond-studded  D.  A.  R.  pin. 
She  held  it  out  toward  me — with  the  air  of  a 
martyr. 

"But — aren't  you  going  to  wear  it  yourself?" 
I  asked,  with  a  little  feeling  of  awe  at  the  lengths 
of  mother-love.  She  had  been  regent  of  her 
chapter — and  loved  the  organization  well  enough 
to  go  to  Washington  every  year. 

"No." 

"Then — then  do  you  mean  to  say  that  you're 
not  going  to  Mrs.  Walker's  to-day?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Why— mother!" 

I  turned  to  her  and  saw  that  a  tear  had 
dropped  down  upon  the  last  golden  bar  bridging 


ET  TU,  BRUTE!  85 

the  wisp  of  red,  white  and  blue.  There  were  ten 
bars  in  all,  each  one  engraved  for  an  ancestor — 
and  when  I  wore  the  thing  I  felt  like  a  foreign 
diplomat  sitting  for  his  picture. 

"What's  the  matter,  honey?"  I  asked.  She 
had  always  been  my  little  girl,  and  I  felt  at  times 
as  if  I  were  unduly  severe  in  my  discipline  of 
her. 

"Grace,  you  don't  know  how  I  feel!" 

The  words  came  jerkily — and  I  knew  that  I 
was  in  for  it. 

"Does  your  head  ache?"  I  asked  hastily. 
"You'd  better  get  on  the  car  and  ride  out  into 
the—" 

"My  head  doesn't  ache!"  she  denied  stoutly. 
"It's  my  h-heart! — To  see  you— Grace  Chalmers 
Christie — racing  around  to  such  things  as  this  in 
a  coat-suit!  You  ought,  by  right  of  birth  and 
charm,  be  the  chief  ornament  of  such  affairs  as 
this — the  chief  ornament,  I  say — yet  you  go 
carrying  a  'hunk  o'  copy  paper!' " 

"In  my  bag,"  I  modified. 


86  AMAZING  GRACE 

"And  you  get  up  and  leave  places  before  you 
get  a  bite  of  food — and  race  back  to  that  office, 
like  a  wild  thing,  to  'turn  it  in!' '' 

This  contemptuous  use  of  my  own  jargon 
caused  me  to  laugh. 

"And  do  you  think  that  the  wearing  of  this 
heavy  pin  will  prove  so  exhausting  that  I'll  have 
to  stay  at  Mrs.  Walker's  to-day  for  a  bite  of 
food?"  I  asked. 

She  looked  at  me  in  helpless  reproach. 

"I  want  you  to  go  to  this  thing  as  a  D.  A.  R.," 
she  explained,  "not  as  a  Herald  reporter." 

"Then  I'll  wear  it,"  I  promised,  kissing  her 
soothingly.  "But  you  must  go,  too." 

She  shook  her  head  again. 

"I  can't — I  really  can't!"  she  said.  "I've  got 
nothing  fine  enough  to  wear.  This  is  going  to 
be  a  magnificent  thing,  every  one  tells  me — with 
all  the  local  Sons — and  this  wonderful  Major 
Coleman  to  lecture  on  flags." 

She  looked  at  me  suspiciously  as  she  uttered 
her  plaint  about  the  Sons  being  present,  and  in 


ET  TU,  BRUTE!  87 

answer,  I  thrust  forward  one  gray  suede  pump. 

"But  I'm  ready  for  any  Son  on  earth — Old- 
burgh  earth,"  I  protested.  "Don't  you  see  my 
exquisite  lace  collar — and  the  pink  satin  rose  in 
my  chapeau — and  this  silken  and  buskskin  foot- 
gear? Surely  no  true  Son  would  ever  pause  to 
suspect  the  'hunk  o'  copy  paper*  which  lieth  be- 
neath all  this  glory !" 

"Isn't  Guilford  going  with  you?"  she  called 
after  me  as  I  left  the  house  a  few  minutes  later. 
"Will  he  meet  you  at  the  office?" 

"No — thank  heaven — it's  an  awful  thing  to 
have  to  listen  to  two  men  talk  at  the  same  time — 
especially  when  you're  taking  one  down  in  short- 
hand— and  Guilford  is  mercifully  busy  this  after- 
noon." 

I  had  a  bunch  of  pink  roses,  gathered  fresh 
that  morning  from  our  strip  of  garden,  and  I 
stopped  in  the  office  of  the  owner  and  publisher 
when  I  had  reached  the  Herald  building.  Just 
because  he's  old,  and  drank  out  of  the  same  can- 
teen with  my  grandfather  I  made  a  habit  of 


88  AMAZING  GRACE 

keeping  fresh  flowers  in  his  gray  Rookwood 
vase.  This  spot  of  color,  together  with  the  oc- 
casional twinkle  from  his  eyes,  made  the  only 
break  in  the  dusty  newspapery  monotony  of  the 
room.  He  looked  up  from  his  desk,  and  his  face 
brightened  as  he  saw  my  holiday  attire. 

"Well,  Grace?" 

He  started  up,  big  and  shaggy — and  wistful — 
like  a  St.  Bernard.  I  like  old  men  to  look  like 
St.  Bernards — and  young  ones  to  look  like  grey- 
hounds. 

"Don't  get  up — nor  clear  off  a  chair  for  me,"  I 
warned,  catching  up  the  vase  and  starting  to- 
ward the  water-cooler.  "I  can't  stay  a  minute." 

He  collapsed  into  his  squeaky  revolving  chair. 
When  he  was  a  lad  a  Yankee  minnie  ball  had  im- 
planted a  kiss  upon  his  left  shoulder-blade,  and 
he  still  carried  that  side  with  a  jaunty  little  hike 
— a  most  flirtatious  little  hike,  which,  however, 
caused  the  distinguished  rest  of  him  to  appear 
unduly  severe. 


ET  TU,  BRUTE!  89 

"Ah!  But  you  must  explain  the  'dolled-up' 
aspect,"  he  begged. 

I  laughed  at  the  schoolgirl  slang. 

"Why,  this  is  Flag  Day !"  I  told  him.  "How 
can  you  have  forgotten  ? — There  will  be  a  gigan- 
tic celebration  at  Mrs.  Hiram  Walker's — and  all 
the  pedigreed  world  will  be  there." 

He  smiled — slowly. 

"And  you're  writing  it  up?" 

"Just  Major  Coleman's  lecture!  They  say  he 
is  quite  the  most  learned  man  in  the  world  on  the 
subject  of  flags.  He  knows  them  and  loves  them. 
He  carries  them  about  with  him  on  these  lecture 
tours  in  felt-lined  steel  cases." 

"Cases  ?"  he  smiled. 

"Certainly,"  I  answered.  "Whatever  a  man 
esteems  most  precious — or  useful — he  has  cases 
for!  The  commercial  man  has  his  sample  cases 
— the  medical  man  his  instrument  cases — the 
artistic  man,  his — " 

"Divorce  cases,"  he  interrupted  dryly. 


90  AMAZING  GRACE 

"Alas,  yes!"  I  sighed,  my  thoughts  traveling 
back. 

He  wheeled  slowly,  giving  me  a  glance  which 
finally  tapered  off  with  the  pink  rosebuds  in  my 
hands. 

"Then,"  he  asked  kindly,  "if  you're  going  to 
a  very  great  affair  this  afternoon,  why  don't  you 
keep  these  flowers  and  wear  them  yourself?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"But  I'm  a  newspaper  woman!"  I  said  with 
dignity.  "I  might  as  well  wear  a  vanity-bag  as 
to  wear  flowers." 

"Bosh!  You're  not  a  newspaper  woman, 
Grace,"  he  denied,  still  looking  at  me  half  sadly. 
"And  yet — well,  sometimes  it  is — just  such 
wromen  as  you  who  do  the  amazing  things." 

"Mother  thinks  so,  certainly!"  I  laughed. 
"But  you  meant  in  what  way,  for  instance?" 

He  hesitated,  studying  me  for  a  moment, 
while  I  held  still  and  let  him,  for  there's  always 
a  satisfaction  in  being  studied  when  there's  a 
satin  rose  in  your  hat. 


ET  TU,  BRUTE!  91 

"Oh — nothing,"  he  finally  answered,  with  a 
look  of  regret  upon  his  face. 

"But  it  is  something!"  I  persisted,  "and,  even 
if  I  am  in  a  big  hurry,  I  shan't  budge  until  you 
tell  me!" 

"Well,  since  you  insist — I  only  meant  to  say 
that  I'd  been  doing  a  little  thinking  on  my  own 
account  lately — as  owner  and  publisher  of  this 
paper,  with  its  interests  at  heart — and  I've  won- 
dered just  how  much  a  woman  might  accom- 
plish, after  a  man  had  failed." 

"A  woman?" 

"By  the  ill  use  of  her  eyes,  I  mean,"  he  con- 
fessed, his  own  eyes  twinkling  a  little.  "Women 
can  gain  by  the  ill  use  of  their  eyes  what  men 
fail  to  accomplish  by  their  straightforward 
methods." 

"But  that's  what  men  hate  so  in  women!"  I 
said. 

He  nodded. 

"Ye-es — maybe!  That  is,  they  make  a  great 
pretense  of  hating  a  woman  when  she  uses  her 


92  AMAZING  GRACE 

eyes  to  any  end  save  one — charming  them  for 
their  own  dear  sakes!" 

"They  naturally  grudge  her  the  spoils  she  gains 
by  the  ill  use  of  those  important  members,"  I 
answered  defensively. 

"Oh,"  he  put  in  quickly,  "I  wasn't  going  to 
suggest  that  you  do  any  such  thing — unless  you 
wanted  to!  I  was  merely  thinking — that  was 
all!" 

"And  besides,"  I  kept  on,  "all  the  men  who 
have  ever  done  anything  worth  being  inter- 
viewed for — nearly  all  of  them,  I  mean — are  so 
old  that—" 

He  interrupted  me  wrathfully. 

"Old  men  are  not  necessarily  blind  men,  Miss 
Christie,"  he  explained.  "But  we'll  change  the 
subject,  if  you  please!" 

"Anyway,  it  doesn't  happen  once  in  twenty 
years  that  a  newspaper  woman  gets  a  scoop  just 
because  she's  a  woman,"  I  continued,  not  being 
ready  just  then  to  change  the  subject  even  if  he 
had  demanded  it. 


ETTU,  BRUTE!  93 

"It  does,"  he  contradicted.  "It's  one  of  the 
most  popular  plots  for  magazine  stories." 

"Bah!  Magazine  stories  and  life  are  two  dif- 
ferent propositions,  my  dear  Captain  Macauley!" 
I  explained  with  a  blase  air.  "I  should  like  some 
better  precedent  before  I  started  out  on  an  as- 
signment." 

"Yet  you  are  a  most  unprecedented  young 
woman,"  he  replied  in  a  meaning  tone.  "I've  sus- 
pected it  before — but  recent  reports  confirm  my 
worst  imaginings." 

I  glanced  at  him  searchingly. 

"You've  been  talking  with  mother?"  I  ven- 
tured. 

For  a  moment  he  was  inscrutable. 

"Oh,  I  know  you  have!"  I  insisted.  "She's 
told  it  to  everybody  who  will  listen." 

"The  story  of  the  Coburn-Colt  that  wasn't 
hatched?" 

His  face  was  severe,  but  the  little  upward 
twist  of  his  left  shoulder  was  twitching  as  if 
with  suppressed  emotion. 


94  AMAZING  GRACE 

"She  told  you  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  I  know," 
I  kept  on.  "All  the  old  friends  get  the  tearful 
accompaniment." 

"Well,  miss,  doesn't  that  make  you  all  the 
more  ashamed  of  your  foolishness?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"My  foolishness?" 

Something  seemed  to  give  way  under  me  as 
he  said  this,  for  he  was  always  on  my  side,  and 
I  had  never  found  sympathy  lacking  before. 

"I  mean  that — that  Don  Quixote  carried  to 
an  extreme  becomes  Happy  Hooligan,"  he  pro- 
nounced. 

I  drew  back  in  amazement. 

"Why,  Captain  Horace  Macauley — of  Com- 
pany A — i8th  Kentucky  Infantry!" 

He  tried  hard  not  to  smile. 

"You  needn't  go  so  far  back — stay  in  the 
present  century,  if  you  please." 

"But  ever  since  then — even  to  this  good  day 
and  in  a  newspaper  office,  where  the  atmosphere 
is  so  cold-blooded  that  a  mosquito  couldn't  fly 


ET  TU,  BRUTE!  95 

around  without  getting  a  congestive  chill,  you 
know  your  reputation !  Why,  you  could  give  the 
Don  horse  spurs  and  armor,  then  arrive  a  full 
week  ahead  of  him  at  a  windmill!" 

"Tommy-rot." 

"Supererogation  is  a  prettier  word,"  I  amend- 
ed, but  he  shook  his  head. 

"No!  Six  syllables  are  like  six  figures — they 
get  you  dizzy  when  you  commence  fooling  with 
them!  Besides,  I  was  discussing  your  right  to 
commit  foolish  acts  of  self-sacrificing,  Grace,  not 
mine." 

"But  it  didn't  seem  foolish  to  me,"  I  tried  to 
explain. 

"When  you're  working  in  this  rotten  news- 
paper office,  where  no  woman  could  possibly  feel 
at  home,  for  the  vigorous  sum  of  seventy-five 
dollars  a  month? — Then  it  doesn't  seem  idiotic?" 

"No!" 

"And  your  mother  moping  and  pining  for  the 
things  she  ought  to  have  ?" 

"No-o— not  much !" 


96  AMAZING  GRACE 

"And  Guilford  Blake  standing  by,  waiting  like 
a  gentleman  for  this  fever  of  emancipation  to 
pass  by  and  desquamation  to  take  place?" 

This  interested  me. 

"What's  'desquamation?'"  I  asked.  "I 
haven't  time  to  get  my  dictionary  now." 

"You  couldn't  find  it  in  any  save  a  medical 
dictionary,  likely,"  he  explained,  with  a  pretense 
at  patience.  "Anyway,  it's  the  peeling  off  pro- 
cess which  follows  a  high  fever — especially  such 
fevers  as  you  girls  of  this  restless,  modern  tem- 
perament so  often  experience!" 

I  shivered. 

"Ugh!  It  doesn't  sound  pretty!"  I  comment- 
ed. 

"Nor  is  it  pretty,"  he  assured  me,  "but  it's 
very  wholesome.  Once  you've  caught  the  fever, 
lived  through  it,  peeled  off  and  got  a  shiny  new 
skin  you're  forever  immune  against  its  return. 
This,  of  course,  is  what  Guilford  is  waiting  so 
patiently  for.  He  is  one  of  the  most  estimable 
young  fellows  I  know,  Grace,  and — " 


ET  TU,  BRUTE!  97 

I  looked  wounded. 

"Don't  you  suppose  I  know  that?"  I  asked. 
Then  glancing  quickly  at  the  watch  bracelet  on 
my  wrist,  and  seeing  with  a  gasp  of  relief  that 
the  hands  were  pointing  toward  the  dangerous 
hour  of  three,  I  turned  toward  the  door. 

"I  must  hurry!"  I  plead.  "You've  really  no 
idea  what  an  interesting  occasion  a  Flag  Day 
celebration  is,  Captain  Macauley!" 

"No?"  he  smiled,  understanding  my  sudden 
determination  to  leave. 

"Indeed,  no!  Why,  for  three  hundred  and 
sixty-four  days  in  the  year  you  may  have  a  gen- 
tle Platonic  affection  for  General  Washington, 
Paul  Revere  and  the  rest,  but  on  the  other  day — 
Flag  Day — your  flame  is  rekindled  into  a  burn- 
ing zeal !  You  can't  afford  to  be  late !  You  must 
hurry ! — Especially  if  you  have  to  go  there  on  the 
street-car !" 

"It's  a  deuced  pity  you  can't  get  up  a  zeal  for 
a  devoted  living  man,"  he  called  after  me  in  a 
severe  voice  as  I  reached  the  door.  "It's  a  pity 


98  AMAZING  GRACE 

you  can't  see  the  idiocy  of  this  determination  of 
yours — before  that  publishing  company  revokes 
its  offer." 

"Well,  who  knows?"  I  answered,  waving  him 
a  gay  good-by.  "I  hate  street-cars  above  every- 
thing, and  I'm  sorry  my  coupe  isn't  waiting  at 
the  door  right  now !" 


CHAPTER  VI 

FLAG  DAY 

NOW,  according  to  my  ethics,  there  are  two 
kinds  of  men  who  go  to  daylight  parties 
—idiots  and  those  that  are  dragged  there  by 
their  wives. 

I  had  scarcely  crossed  the  lawn  of  Seven  Oaks 
and  found  for  myself  a  modest  place  beside  the 
speaker's  stand — which  was  garlanded  with  as 
many  different  kinds  of  flags  as  there  were  rats 
in  Hamelin  Town — when  I  observed  that  this 
present  congregation  held  a  fair  sprinkling  of 
each  kind. 

But  these  held  my  attention  for  only  a  mo- 
ment— because  of  the  house  in  the  background, 
and  the  trees  overhead.  (To  be  candid,  Mrs. 
Hiram  Walker's  country  place  is  not  exactly  a 
99 


ioo  AMAZING  GRACE 

soothing  retreat  to  visit  when  temptation  is  bark- 
ing at  your  heels  like  a  little  hungry  dog — and 
the  desire  of  your  heart  begins  with  H.) 

"House  that's  a  Home"  might  have  been  writ- 
ten on  the  sign-board  of  the  car-station  much 
more  truthfully  than  "Seven  Oaks" — for  only 
the  immense  patriarchal  ones  were  included  in 
the  "Seven"  there  being  hordes  of  lesser  ones 
which  were  no  more  mentioned  than  children 
are  when  they're  getting  big  enough  to  be  pay- 
ing railroad  fare.  The  grove  was  well  cared 
for,  but  not  made  artificial,  and  even  the  luxur- 
iousness  of  the  house  itself  could  not  hurt  the 
charm,  for  the  Hiram  Walkers  were  human 
beings  before  they  were  society  column  acrobats. 

Our  families  had  always  been  friends,  so  I 
happened  to  know  that  years  and  years  ago, 
when  Mr.  Walker  was  a  clerk  in  an  insurance 
office — with  a  horse  and  buggy  for  business 
through  the  week  and  joy  unconfined  on  Sunday 
— they  had  been  in  the  habit  of  haunting  this 
spot,  he  and  his  slim  young  wife — bringing  a 


FLAG  DAY  101 

basket  full  of  supper  and  thrusting  the  baby's 
milk  bottle  down  into  the  ice-cream  freezer. 
Then,  there  were  more  years,  of  longing  and 
saving;  they  bought  the  hill,  patiently  enduring 
a  period  of  blue-prints  and  architectural  advice 
before  the  house  was  built.  By  this  time  Mrs. 
Walker's  slimness  was  gone,  and  Mr.  Walker 
had  found  out  the  vanity  of  hair  tonics — but  the 
house  was  theirs  at  last.  It  was  big  and  very 
beautiful — roomy,  rather  than  mushroomy — and 
thoughtful,  rambling,  old-timey,  spreading  out  a 
great  deal  of  portico  to  the  kiss  of  the  sun. 
Brown-hooded  monks  and  clanking  beads  ought, 
by  rights,  to  have  gone  with  that  portico. 

Then,  the  June  sunshine  was  doing  such  won- 
ders with  the  oaks,  great  and  small,  along  the 
hillsides ! 

It  touched  up,  with  a  tinge  of  glory,  even  the 
shining  motor-cars  in  the  driveway.  There  were 
dozens  of  them — limousines,  touring  cars,  lady- 
like coupes — with  their  lazy,  half-asleep  attend- 
ants, and  the  regularity  of  their  unbroken  files, 


102  AMAZING  GRACE 

their  dignity,  their  quietness,  and  the  glitter  of 
the  sun  against  their  metal  gave  them  something 
of  a  martial  aspect.  The  silver  sheen  of  the 
lamps  and  levers  was  brought  out  in  a  manner  to 
suggest  a  line  of  marching  men,  silent,  but  very 
potent — and  enjoying  more  than  a  little  what 
they  offered  to  view,  the  dazzle,  of  helmet,  sword 
and  coat-of-mail. 

The  beauty  of  it  all — the  softened  glory  of  the 
shade  in  which  I  sat  making  me  feel  that  I  was 
a  spectator  at  a  tournament — cast  a  spell  over 
me,  for  I  never  find  it  very  hard  to  fall  spell- 
bound. Isn't  it  funny  that  when  you're  pos- 
sessed of  an  intelligence  which  has  fits  of  St. 
Vitus'  dance  they  call  it  Imagination? — That's 
the  kind  mine  is — jerky  and  unreliable.  It  is  the 
kind  of  imagination  which  can  take  a  dried-up 
acorn  and  draw  forth  a  medieval  forest;  or  gaze 
upon  a  rusty  old  spur  and  live  over  again  the 
time  when  knights  were  bold. 

But  to  get  back  to  "those  present." 

First  of  all,  I  noted  Oldburgh's  best-known 


FLAG  DAY  103 

remittance  man.  I  noted  him  mentally,  mind 
you,  not  paragraphically,  for  they  never  made 
me  do  the  real  drudgery  of  the  society  page.  He 
was  sitting  beside  his  mama,  swinging  her 
gauze  fan  annoyingly  against  her  lorgnette  chain. 
His  divorce  the  year  before  had  come  near  unit- 
ing Church  and  State,  since  it's  a  fact  that  noth- 
ing so  cements  conflicting  bodies  like  the  upris- 
ing of  a  new  common  foe;  and  he  had  sinned 
against  both  impartially.  After  him  came  two 
or  three  financial  graybeards ;  three  or  four  year- 
ling bridegrooms,  not  broken  yet  to  taking  the  bit 
between  their  teeth  and  staying  rebelliously  at  the 
office;  a  habitual  "welcomer  to  our  city" — Major 
Harvey  Coleman,  a  high  officer  in  the  Sons  of 
the  American  Revolution,  and  the  piece  de 
r^sistence  of  this  occasion — then — then — ! 

Well,  certainly  the  impassive  being  next  him 
was  the  most  unsocial-looking  man  I  had  ever 
had  my  eyes  droop  beneath  the  gaze  of! 

He  was  sitting  in  the  place  of  honor — in  the 
last  chair  of  the  first  row — but  despite  this,  he  so 


104  AMAZING  GRACE 

clearly  did  not  belong  at  that  party,  and  he  so 
clearly  wished  himself  away  that  I — well,  I  in- 
stantly began  searching  through  the  crowds  to 
find  a  woman  with  handcuffs!  I  felt  sure  that, 
whoever  she  might  be — she  hadn't  got  him  there 
any  other  way! 

And  yet — and  yet — (my  thoughts  were  com- 
ing in  little  dashing  jerks  like  that)  he  -was 
rather  too  big  for  any  one  woman  to  have 
handled  him! 

I  decided  this  after  another  look  and  another 
droop  of  my  own  eyes,  for  he  was  still  looking — 
and  that  was  what  I  decided  about  him  first — 
that  he  was  very  big!  Then  misbehaving  brown 
hair  came  next  into  my  consciousness.  It  came 
to  top  off  a  picture  which  for  a  moment  caused 
me  to  wonder  whether  he  was  really  a  flesh-and- 
blood  man  at  Mrs.  Walker's  reception,  or  the 
spirit  of  some  woodsman — come  again,  after 
many  years,  to  haunt  the  grove  of  the  Seven 
Oaks. 

His  New  York  clothes  didn't  make  a  bit  of 


FLAG  DAY  105 

difference — except  to  spoil  the  illusion  a  little. 
They  were  all  light  gray,  except  for  a  glimpse 
of  blue  silk  hose,  and  their  perfection  only  served 
to  remind  you  that  it  was  a  pity  for  a  man  who 
looked  like  that  to  dress  like  that! 

Modern  man  has  but  one  artistic  garment — a 
bathrobe;  yet  it  wouldn't  have  relieved  my  feel- 
ings any  if  this  man  had  been  dressed  in  one. 
For  he  wasn't  artistic — and  certainly  he  wasn't 
modern ! 

Still,  I  felt  the  pity  of  it  all,  for  he  ought  to 
have  had  better  perceptions.  He  ought  to  have 
had  his  clothes  and  cosmic  consciousness  match! 
He  ought  to  have  been  dressed  in  a  coat  of  goat- 
skin—and his  knees  ought  to  have  been  bare — 
and  the  rawhide  thongs  of  his  moccasins  ought 
to  have  been  strong  and  firm ! 

I  had  just  reached  this  point  in  my  plans  for 
the  change  in  his  wardrobe,  when  our  hostess 
bustled  up  and  shooed  me  out  of  my  quiet  corner. 

"Grace,"  she  whispered,  "move  out  a  bit,  will 
you,  and  let  me  crowd  a  man  in  over  there — " 


io6  AMAZING  GRACE 

"In  here?" 

She  nodded. 

"Where  he  can't  escape!"  she  explained. 

I  gathered  up  my  opened  sheet  of  copy  paper 
and  moved  obediently  into  the  next  chair,  which 
she  had  indicated. 

"That's  right — thank  you!  I've  found  out  by 
experience  that  if  you  let  certain  suspicious  char- 
acters linger  on  the  ragged  edges  of  a  crowd  like 
this  they're  sure  to  disappear." 

Then  she  turned  and  beckoned  to  my  Fifth- 
Avenue-looking  backwoodsman — with  a  smile 
of  triumph. 

"Him?"  I  asked  in  surprise. 

She  was  looking  in  his  direction,  so  failed  to 
see  the  expression  of  my  face. 

"It's  no  more  than  he  deserves — having  this 
American  Revolution  rubbed  in  on  him,"  she  ob- 
served absently.  "I  have  never  worked  so  hard 
in  my  life  over  any  one  man  as  I  have  over  this 
identical  Maitland  Tait !" 

I  saw  him  rise  and  come  toward  her — then  I 


FLAG  DAY  107 

began  having  trouble  with  my  throat.  I  couldn't 
breathe  very  easily. 

"Maitland  Tait !"  I  gasped. 

"Yes—the  Maitland  Tait!" 

Her  voice  sounded  with  a.  brass-band  echo  of 
victory. 

"But  how  did  you — " 

"By  outwitting  Pollie  Kendall — plague  take 
her!" 

The  man  was  coming  leisurely,  stopping  once 
to  speak  to  one  of  the  graybeard  financiers. 

"Have  you  met  him?"  Mrs.  Walker  asked 
carelessly,  as  he  approached. 

"No." 

She  turned  to  him. 

"I'm  going  to  put  you  in  here — where  you'll 
have  to  stay,"  she  laughed,  her  big,  heavy 
frame  looking  dwarfed  beside  his  own  towering 
height. 

"I  wasn't  going  to  run  away." 

"No?  You  can't  always  tell — and  I  thought 
it  safe  to  take  every  precaution,  for  this  lecture 


io8  AMAZING  GRACE 

may  be  long,  and  it's  certain  to  be  irritating  to 
one  of  your  nationality. — In  this  location  you'll 
be  in  the  clutches  of  the  Press,  you  see,  and — 
by  the  way,  you  must  meet  Miss  Christie! — Mr. 
Tait,  Miss  Christie !" 

His  face  was  still  perfectly  impassive,  and  he 
bowed  gravely — with  that  down-to-the-belt 
grace  which  foreigners  have.  I  nodded  the  pink 
satin  rose  on  my  hat  in  his  direction.  This  was 
all!  Neither  made  any  further  demonstration 
than  that! — And  to  think  that  since  Creation's 
dawn — the  world  over — the  thing  is  done  just 
as  idly  and  carelessly  as  that!  "Mr.  Tait,  Miss 
Christie!" — These  are  the  words  which  were 
said — and,  dear  me,  all  the  days  of  one's  life 
ought  to  be  spent  in  preparation  for  the  event! 

"You  are  a  Daughter  of  the  Revolution,  I  pre- 
sume?" his  voice  finally  asked  me — a  deep  clear 
voice,  which  was  strong  enough  to  drown  out 
the  Wagnerian  processionals  beating  at  that  mo- 
ment against  my  brain,  and  to  follow  me  off  on 
the  mother-of-pearl  cloud  I  had  embarked  upon. 


FLAG  DAY  109 

It  was  a  glorious  voice,  distinctly  un-American, 
but  with  the  suggestion  of  having  the  ability  to 
do  linguistic  contortions.  He  looked  like  a  man 
who  had  traveled  far — over  seas  and  deserts — 
and  his  voice  confirmed  it.  It  proclaimed  that  he 
could  bargain  with  equal  ease  in  piasters  and 
pence.  Still,  it  was  a  big  wholesome  voice.  It 
matched  the  coat  of  goatskin,  the  bare  knees  and 
the  moccasins  I  had  planned  for  him. 

"Yes,  I  am,"  I  answered. 

Our  eyes  met  for  an  instant,  as  he  disengaged 
his  gaze  from  that  ten-barred  insignia  on  my 
coat.  Far,  far  back,  concealed  by  his  dark  iris, 
was  a  tinge  of  amused  contempt. 

"Then  I  dare  say  you're  interested  in  this  oc- 
casion?" he  inquired.  I  shouldn't  say  that  he 
inquired,  for  he  didn't.  His  tone  held  a  chal- 
lenge. 

"No,  indeed,  I'm  not!"  I  answered  foolishly. 
"I  came  only  because  I  have  to  write  up  Major 
Coleman's  speech  for  my  paper.  I  am  a  special 
writer  for  the  Herald." 


lio  AMAZING  GRACE 

And  it  was  then  that  he  smiled — really  smiled. 
I  saw  a  transformation  which  I  had  never  seen 
in  any  other  man's  face,  for  with  him  a  smile 
escapes!  There  is  a  breaking  up  of  the  rugged- 
ness,  an  eclipse  of  the  stern  gravity  for  a  mo- 
ment, and — no  matter  how  much  you  had  cared 
for  these  an  instant  before — you  could  not  miss 
them  then — not  in  that  twinkling  flood  of  rad- 
iance ! 

"Oh — so  you're  not  an  ancestor-worshiper?" 

"No." 

"But  I  thought  Americans  were!"  he  insisted. 

"Americans?"  I  repeated  loftily.  "Why,  of 
course,  that's  an  English — religion." 

"Not  always,"  he  answered  grimly,  and  the 
Italian  band  stationed  behind  the  clump  of  box- 
wood cut  short  any  further  conversation. 

I  was  glad,  for  I  did  not  want  to  talk  to  him 
then.  I  merely  wanted  to  stand  off — and  look  at 
him — and  tell  myself  what  manner  of  man  he 
must  be. 

To  do  this  I  glanced  down  at  my  copy  paper, 


FLAG  DAY  in 

with  one  eyelid  raised  in  favor  of  his  profile.  An 
ancestor- worshiper ?  Absurd!  Ancestors  were 
quite  out  of  the  question  with  him,  I  felt  sure. 
There  was  something  gloriously  traditionless 
about  his  face  and  expansive  frame.  But  his 
hands?  Those  infallible  records  of  what  has 
gone  before? — I  dropped  my  eyes  to  their  nor- 
mal position.  His  hands  were  good!  They  were 
big  and  long  and  brown — that  shade  of  brown- 
ness  that  comes  to  a  meerschaum  pipe  after  it 
has  been  kissed  a  time  or  two  by  nicotine.  And 
his  hair  was  brown,  too  light  by  several  shades 
to  match  with  his  very  dark  eyes,  but  it  likely 
looked  lighter  on  account  of  its  conduct,  stand- 
ing up,  and  away,  and  back  from  his  face.  His 
complexion  spoke  of  an  early-to-bed  and  early- 
to-tub  code  of  ethics.  His  nose  and  mouth  were 
well  in  the  foreground. 

"You  are  a  man  who  cares  nothing  at  all  for 
your  ancestors — but  you'll  care  a  great  deal  for 
your  descendants !"  was  the  summing  up  I  finally 
made  of  him, 


H2  AMAZING  GRACE 

At  the  close  of  the  band's  Hungarian  Rhap- 
sody he  leaned  over  and  whispered  to  me. 

"Did  you  say  the  Herald?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"I  have  had  my — attention  called  to  your 
paper  recently,"  he  said,  in  so  serious  a  tone  that 
I  was  compelled  to  look  up  and  search  for  the 
smile  which  I  felt  must  lurk  behind  it.  And 
when  I  saw  it  there  I  felt  reassured,  and  smiled 
in  response. 

"So  they  told  me  at  the  office,"  I  said  with 
great  cordiality.  "Is  it  three  or  four  of  our  re- 
porters you've  thrown  down  your  front  steps?" 

"Oh,  I  haven't  got  close  enough  to  them  to 
throw  them  down  the  steps,"  he  disclaimed 
quickly.  "That's  one  thing  you  have  to  guard 
against  with  reporters.  They've  got  you — if 
they  once  see  the  whites  of  your  eyes !" 

I  felt  it  my  duty  to  bristle,  in  defense  of  my 
kind. 

"Not  unless  your  eyes  talk,"  I  said.  Then, 
when  he  stared  at  me  in  uncertainty  for  a  moment, 


FLAG  DAY  115 

I  dropped  my  own  eyes  again,  for  I  felt  that 
they  were  proclaiming  their  convictions  as  loudly 
as  a  Hyde  Park  suffragette  meeting. 

The  band  at  that  moment  struck  up  The  Star- 
Spangled  Banner  in  a  manner  to  suggest  the 
president's  advent  into  the  theater,  and  I 
searched  in  my  bag  for  my  pencil.  I  had  seen 
the  lecturer  cough. 

"I  say — how  long  is  this  convocation  sup- 
posed to  last?"  Maitland  Tait  inquired  in  a  very 
inconspicuous  whisper,  as  the  white-flanneled 
lion  of  the  affair  arose  from  his  chair  and  be- 
came the  cynosure  of  lorgnettes. 

"Well,  this  talk  will  absorb  about  forty-five 
minutes,  I  should  hazard,"  I  said.  Already  I 
had  had  the  forethought  to  jot  down  the  usual 
opening:  "Ladies  and  Gentlemen — Daughters 
and  Sons  of  the  American  Revolution:  It  is 
with  a  feeling  of  profoundest  pleasure  that  I 
have  the  privilege  of  being  with  you  to-day," 
etc.  So  for  the  moment  my  attention  was  un- 
divided. 


ii4  AMAZING  GRACE 

"And  there  will  be  other  talks?" 

"Yes." 

"And  a  walk  "through  the  gardens,  I  believe 
Mrs. — Mrs.  Walker  said?" 

"Probably  so.  The  Seven  Oaks  gardens  are 
very  lovely  in  June." 

At  the  mention  of  gardens  his  eyes  wandered, 
with  what  I  fancied  was  a  tinge  of  homesickness, 
toward  the  colorful  flowering  spaces  beyond  the 
box  hedges.  There  were  acres  and  acres  of 
typical  English  gardens  back  there;  and  the  odor 
of  the  sweet  old-fashioned  shrubs  came  in  on 
gentle  heat  waves  from  the  open  area.  He  look- 
ed as  if  he  would  like  to  be  back  there  in  those 
English-looking  gardens — with  all  the  people 
gone. 


CHAPTER  VII 

STRAWS  POINT 

44    A     ND  are  you  going  to  write  up  the  whole 

j£X  thing?"  he  inquired,  during  a  little  com- 
motion caused  by  one  of  the  large  flags  slipping 
from  its  stand  and  threatening  to  obscure  the 
speaker. 

"You  mean  make  a  society  column  report  of 
it?" 

"Yes." 

"No.  I'm  a  sort  of  special  feature  writer  on 
the  Herald,  and  I  am  to  get  only  this  speech  of 
Major  Coleman's  to  put  in  my  Sunday  page." 

The  lecture  had  commenced  in  good  earnest 
by  this  time,  and  I  was  scribbling  away  in  short- 
hand as  I  talked. 

"Not  one  among  us  is  insensible  to  the  visions 
of  patriotic  pride  and  affection  which  the  very 


Ii6  AMAZING  GRACE 

name  of  'Old  Glory'  conjures  up  within  us,  but 
at  the  same  time  we  may  do  well  to  review,  quite 
dispassionately,  once  in  a  while  the  wonderful 
chain  of  historical  changes  which  came  about  in 

evolving  this  flag  to  its  present  form 

For  we  all  realize  that  there  is  no  perfect  thing 
in  this  world  which  has  not  been  an  evolution 
from  some  imperfect  thing.  .  .  .  When 
Pope  Gregory,  the" — Somethingth,  I  quite  failed 
to  catch  his  number — "granted  to  Scotland  the 
white  cross  of  St.  Andrew,  and  to  England  the 
red  cross  of  St.  George,  he  faintly  surmised  what 
a  tempest  in  a  teapot  he  was  stirring  up!" 

He  paused,  and  the  man  at  my  side  got  in  a 
word,  edgewise. 

"All  of  it?"  he  asked,  looking  aghast  at  the 
pages  of  long-tailed  dots  and  dashes  under  my 
hand.  I  laughed. 

<;I'm  paid  to  do  it,"  I  answered.  "I  don't  dis- 
figure my  handwriting  this  way  for  nothing." 

"But — but — you  must  be  very  clever,"  he  com- 
mented, so  appalled  at  the  thought  that  he  forgot 


STRAWS  POINT  117 

he  was  talking  to  a  stranger.  I  like  that  faculty. 
I  like  a  man  who  dares  to  be  awkwardly  sincere. 

"Not  clever — only  very  needy,"  I  replied, 
turning  over  the  page  as  I  saw  the  lecturer  re- 
place the  white  flag  of  St.  Andrew  into  its  stand 
and  take  up  the  thread  of  his  talk.  "And  I  don't 
know  that  I  need  get  every  word  of  the  dis- 
course. The  women  who  read  my  page  don't 
care  a  rap  about  flags — but  they  do  care  to  see  a 
picture  of  Major  Coleman  and  his  wife  and  their 
dog  on  the  piazza,  of  their  winter  home,  just  out 
from  Tampa! —  I've  got  to  have  enough  of  this 
lecture  to  carry  that  picture." 

He  nodded  gravely. 

"I  see.    But  after  you  get  this  report  ?" 

"I'm  going  back  to  the  city,"  I  answered.  "I 
have  to  catch  the  five  o'clock  car  in." 

".  .  .  The  jealousy  became  so  fierce  be- 
tween the  two  nations — the  absurd  jealousy  over 
which  should  first  salute  the  flag  of  the  other — • 
St.  George  claiming  great  superiority  in  the  way 
of  godliness  over  St.  Andrew,  and  St.  Andrew, 


ii8  AMAZING  GRACE 

with  the  true  Scotch  spirit,  stiffening  his  neck  to 
the  breaking  point,  while  waiting  for  St.  George 
to  take  off  his  hat  to  him,  that  when  the  story 
of  this  dissension  reached  the  ears  of  Pope  Gre- 
gory, he — " 

I  never  knew  what  he  did  until  afterward,  for 
at  that  moment  I  saw  Maitland  Tait  slip  his 
watch  out  carefully,  guarding  the  action  with 
an  outspread  left  hand. 

"I've  an  engagement  at  five,  too,"  he  said. 

".  .  .  He  determined  to  lose  no  time," 
was  the  next  sentence  I  found  myself  jotting 
down  on  paper,  and  wondering  whether  Major 
Coleman  had  really  said  such  a  thing  or  whether 
it  had  been  born  in  my  mind  of  the  stress  of  the 
moment.  .  .  .  "He  was  a  man  of  the 
most  impulsive,  sometimes  of  the  most  erratic, 
actions." 

"Of  course!"  my  heart  said  between  thumps. 
"I  shouldn't  like  him  if  he  were  not." 

"I  can  make  my  excuses  to  Mrs.  Walker  at 


STRAWS  POINT  119 

the  same  time  you  make  yours,"  the  deep  voice 
said,  in  a  surprisingly  soft  tone. 

".  .  .  For  he  saw  in  such  a  course  pro- 
tection and  peace,"  Major  Coleman  announced. 
"All  the  world  suspected  that  his  ultimate  aim 
was  union,  but — " 

"An  international  alliance,"  my  heart  ex- 
plained, as  I  jotted  down  the  words  of  the  lec- 
turer. 

"Mayn't  I  take  you  back  to  town  in  my  car?" 

".  .  .  And  all  the  world  knew  that  he 
was  a  man  absolutely  untrammeled  by  tradition," 
the  white-flanneled  one  proclaimed. 

"Thank  you,  that  would  be  lovely,  but  I'm 
afraid  Mrs.  Walker  won't  consent  to  your  going 
so  soon,"  I  said  between  curlicues. 

"I'm  going,  however,"  he  answered.  "I've  an 
important  engagement,  and — I'm  not  going  to  stay 
at  this — this,"  he  closed  his  lips  firmly,  but  the 
silence  said  "cussed,"  that  dear,  fierce,  American 
adjective.  "I'm  not  going  to  stay  at  this  party 


120  AMAZING  GRACE 

one  minute  after  you're  gone.  I  don't  like  to 
talk  to  just  any  woman." 

".  .  .  Yet  I  would  have  you  understand 
that  he  was  a  temperamental  man,"  was  thundered 
in  a  warning  tone  from  the  speaker's  stand.  "He 
was  quick  in  judgment  and  action,  but  he  was 
fine  and  sensitive  in  spirit.  I've  never  a  doubt 
that  he  disliked  and  feared  the  occasion  which 
caused  this  precipitate  action.  He  was  quaking 
in  his  boots  all  the  time,  but  he  was  courageous. 
He  decided  to  make  brief  work  of  formalities 
and  take  a  short  cut  to  his  heart's  desire." 

"What  was  it  he  did?"  I  asked  of  Mr.  Tait, 
startled  at  the  thought  of  what  I'd  missed.  "Do 
you  know  what  this  thing  was  that  Pope  Gre- 
gory did?" 

"No-o — listen  a  minute!"  he  suggested. 

".  .  .  Can't  you  just  imagine  now  that 
he  was  afraid  of  what  people  might  say — or  do  ?" 
asked  the  major  encouragingly.  "It  was  abso- 
lutely unprecedented  in  the  annals  of  history — 


STRAWS  POINT  121 

such  a  quick,  rash  and  sudden  decision.  If  Eng- 
land and  Scotland  were  going  to  be  eternally 
bickering  over  their  flags,  they  should  have  one 
flag!  They  should  be  united!  They  should — " 

"The  Union  Jack!"  whispered  the  deep  voice 
close  at  my  side,  while  the  grave  dark  eyes 
lighted,  as — as  they  should  have  lighted,  or  I'd 
never  have  forgiven  him.  "He  created  the  Un- 
ion Jack,  by  George !" 

And  the  speaker  on  the  stand  demonstrated 
the  truth  of  this  conclusion  by  displaying  a  big 
British  flag,  which  caught  in  its  socket  as  he  at- 
tempted to  lift  it  and  occasioned  another  pause  in 
the  speech. 

"This  enthusiasm  makes  me  hungry,"  Mait- 
land  Tait  observed,  as  the  audience  court- 
eously saluted  the  ancient  emblem  of  hostility, 
and  the  echoes  of  applause  died  away.  "Since 
we're  going  to  get  no  tea  here,  can't  we  drive  by 
some  place  up-town?  There's  a  good-looking 
place  in  Union  Street — " 


122  AMAZING  GRACE 

"But  that  would  make  you  very  late  for  your 
engagement,  I'm  afraid,"  I  demurred.  "It  will 
take  some  little  time  to  drive  in." 

He  looked  at  me  wonderingly  for  a  moment. 

"My  engagement  ?    Oh,  yes — but  it  can  wait." 

"Then,  if  it  can,  I'm  afraid  Mrs.  Walker  will 
not  let  you  off.  I  happen  to  know  that — " 

He  cut  short  my  argument  by  motioning  me 
to  pay  attention  to  the  speaker,  who  at  the  mo- 
ment had  replaced  the  flag  of  Pope  Gregory's 
cunning,  and  was  talking  away  at  a  great  rate. 

".  .  .  Yet,  who  can  say  that  the  hastiest 
actions  do  not  often  bring  about  the  best  results? 
Certainly  when  a  decision  is  made  out  of  an  ex- 
cessive desire  to  bring  happiness  to  all  parties 
concerned,  its  immediate  action  can  not  fail  to 
denote  a  wholesome  heartiness  which  should  al- 
ways be  emulated.  .  .  .  Different  from  most 
men  of  his  native  country,  possessing  a  genu- 
inely warm  heart,  a  subtle  mentality,  coupled 
with  a  conscience  which  impelled  him  always  to- 
ward the  right,  he  was  enabled,  by  this  one  im- 


STRAWS  POINT  123 

petuous  act,  to  become  a  benefactor  of  mankind! 
What  he  longed  for  was  harmony — a  harmon- 
ious union;  and  what  he  has  achieved  has  been 
the  direct  outcome  of  a  great  longing.  He 
created  a  union — wholesome,  strengthening  and 
permanent,"  I  took  down  in  shorthand. 

£          '  4t         .    $         •  ^.  £  4c  4  4*  41 

I  have  a  confused  impression — I  suppose  I 
should  say  post-impression,  for  I  didn't  remem- 
ber anything  very  clearly  until  afterward — that 
Betsy  Ross,  Pope  Gregory,  the  Somethingth,  and 
Mrs.  Hiram  Walker  were  all  combining  to  tie 
my  hands  and  feet  together  with  thongs  of  red, 
white  and  blue. 

It  seemed  hours  and  hours  before  that  lecture 
ended,  then  more  hours  before  the  tall  restless 
man  and  I  could  make  our  way  through  a  sea  of 
massaged  faces  to  a  distant  point  where  our 
hostess  stood  giving  directions  to  a  white-coated 
servant. 

She  turned  to  me,  with  a  fluttering  little  air  of 
regret,  when  I  reached  her  side. 


124  AMAZING  GRACE 

"Grace,  surely  you  don't  have  to  hurry  off  at 
this  unchristian  hour!"  she  insisted.  "My  dear, 
you  really  should  stay!  Solinski  has  arranged 
the  loveliest  spread,  and  I'm  not  going  to  keep 
the  company  waiting  forever  to  get  to  it,  either! 
— The  ices  will  be  the  surprise  of  the  season." 

"I'm  sorry,"  I  began,  but  she  interrupted  me. 

"Why  didn't  your  mother  come?" 

Already  her  vague  regret  over  my  own  hasty 
departure  had  melted  away,  and  as  she  saw  the 
tall  man  following  me,  evidently  bent  upon  the 
same  mission  as  mine,  she  put  her  query  in  a  per- 
functory way  to  hide  her  chagrin. 

"Mother  couldn't  come,  Mrs.  Walker.  There 
is  only  one  D.  A.  R.  pin  in  the  family,  as  you 
know — and  I  had  to  wear  that." 

Maitland  Tait,  looking  over  my  shoulder, 
heard  my  explanation  and  smiled. 

"It  is  a  great  deprivation  to  miss  the  rest  of 
your  charming  party,  Mrs.  Walker,"  he  began, 
but  as  he  mentioned  going,  in  a  cool  final  voice, 
our  hostess  emitted  a  little  terrified  shriek. 


STRAWS  POINT  125 

"What?    Not  you,  too!" 

His  face  was  the  picture  of  deep  contrition. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  as  only  an  Englishman 
can  say  it,  and  it  always  sounds  as  if  he  were 
digging  regret  up  out  of  his  heart  with  a  shovel, 
"but  I  have  an  important  engagement  that  really 
can  not  wait — " 

"And  the  General  Seth  O'Callen  Chapter  fair- 
ly holding  its  breath  to  meet  you!"  she  wailed, 
the  despair  in  her  voice  so  genuine  that  it  was 
impossible  to  keep  back  a  smile.  "That  is  our 
chapter  composed  entirely  of  young  women,  you 
know,  and  I'd  given  their  regent  my  word  of 
honor  that  you'd  be  here  to-day!" 

"Which  the  Regent  has  entirely  forgotten  in 
the  charm  of  that  delightful  lecture  we've  just 
heard,  I'm  sure,"  he  answered,  his  tones  regret- 
fully mollifying.  "If  it  were  at  all  possible  for 
me  to  get  word  to  the  man — the  men — " 

The  rest  of  the  fabrication  was  cut  short  and 
drowned  out  by  the  shriek  of  a  trolley-car,  grind- 
ing noisily  round  a  curve  of  the  track  at  that  in- 


126  AMAZING  GRACE 

stant.  It  was  the  five-o'clock  car,  and  I  had 
grown  to  watch  for  its  shriek  as  fearfully  as 
ever  Cinderella  listened  for  the  stroke  of  twelve 
from  the  castle  clock.  For  me  there  was  never  a 
garden  party  without  its  trolley-car  back  to  the 
city — its  hateful,  five-o'clock  car — its  hurried, 
businesslike,  hungry  summons — while  ice  in  tea 
glasses  tinkled  to  the  echo. 

From  force  of  long  habit  now  that  grinding 
sound  of  the  car-wheels  acted  upon  my  nervous 
system  like  a  fire  alarm  upon  an  engine  horse — 
and  I  started  to  run. 

"Charming  party — so  sorry  to  have  to  rush 
off  this  way — hope  next  time  I'll  not  be  so  busy 
—yes,  I'll  tell  mother !" 

I  gathered  the  folds  of  copy  paper  close,  hav- 
ing forgotten  to  thrust  them  away  out  of  sight 
into  my  bag,  and  made  a  break  for  the  front 
gate.  Then,  as  I  reached  the  line  of  waiting 
motor-cars,  I  remembered — and  stopped  still 
with  a  foolish  little  feeling. 

Looking  back    I   saw    Mrs.    Walker   shaking 


STRAWS  POINT  127 

hands  in  an  injured  fashion  with  her  trouble- 
some lion — who,  after  the  manner  of  lions, 
proved  that  he  could  afford  anxiety  as  well  after 
being  caught  as  before, — and  turning  her  back 
resolutely  upon  his  departing  glory. — The  whole 
of  the  General  Seth  O'Callen  Chapter  was  be- 
fore her,  I  knew  she  was  thinking  bitterly. 

"Thank  goodness  she  won't  see  this!"  I  volun- 
teered to  myself,  as  the  tall  gray  figure  came 
hastily  down  the  line  and  caught  up  with  me. 
"She  has  troubles  enough  of  her  own,  and — and 
she  won't  stop  to  wonder  over  whether  I  went 
back  to  the  city  by  trolley,  motor,  or  chariot  of 
fire!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

LONGEST    WAY   HOME 

44"Vf  OU  hadn't  forgotten?"  he  inquired,  com- 
JL  ing  up  behind  me  with  an  expression  of 
uneasiness  as  I  passed  the  first  two  or  three  cars 
in  the  line. 

"No — that  is,  I  forgot  for  only  a  moment! 
I'm  so  used  to  going  to  town  on  this  trolley-car." 

"Then — ah,  here  we  are — " 

The  limousine  to  which  I  was  conducted  was  a 
gleaming  dark-blue  affair,  with  light  tan  uphol- 
stery, and  the  door-knobs,  clock-case  and  mouth- 
piece of  the  speaking-tube  were  of  tortoise-shell. 

The  chauffeur  touched  something  and  the  big 

creature  began  a  softened,  throbbing  breathing. 

Isn't  it  strange  how  we  can  not  help  regarding 

automobiles  as  creatures?    Sometimes  we  think 

128 


LONGEST  WAY  HOME  129 

of  them  as  gliding  swans — at  other  times  as  fiery- 
eyed  dragons.  It  all  depends  upon  whether 
we're  the  duster,  or  the  dustee. 

I  gained  the  idea  as  I  stepped  into  this  present 
one — which  of  course  belonged  to  the  gliding 
swan  variety — that  its  master  must  be  rather  ri- 
diculously well-to-do — for  a  cave-man.  His  ini- 
tials were  on  the  panels,  and  the  man  at  the  wheel 
said,  "Mr.  Tait,  sir,"  after  a  fashion  that  no 
American-trained  servant,  white,  black,  or  al- 
mond-eyed, ever  said.  Evidently  the  car  had 
come  down  from  Pittsburgh  and  the  chauffeur 
had  made  a  longer  journey.  Together,  however, 
they  spelled  perfection — and  luxury.  Still, 
strange  to  say,  the  notion  of  this  man's  possible 
wealth  did  not  get  on  my  throat  and  suffocate 
me,  as  the  notion  of  Guilford's  did.  I  felt  that 
the  man  himself  really  cared  very  little  about  it 
all.  The  idea  of  his  being  a  man  who  could  do 
hard  tasks  patiently  did  not  fade  in  the  glamour 
of  this  damask  and  tortoise-shell. 

"Which   is — the   longest   way   to   town?"   he 


130  AMAZING  GRACE 

asked  in  a  perfectly  grave,  matter-of-fact  way  as 
we  started. 

"Down  this  lane  to  the  Franklin  Pike,  then  out 
past  Fort  Christian  to  Belcourt  Boulevard — and 
on  to  High  Street,"  I  replied  in  a  perfectly  grave, 
matter-of-fact  way,  as  if  he  were  a  tubercular 
patient,  bound  to  spend  a  certain  number  of 
hours  in  aimless  driving  every  day. 

"Thank  you,"  he  answered  very  seriously,  then 
turned  to  the  chauffeur. 

"Collins,  can  you  follow  this  line?  I  think 
we  drove  out  this  way  the  day  the  car  came?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir — thank  you,"  the  man  declared, 
slipping  his  way  in  and  out  among  the  throngs 
of  other  vehicles. 

Then  as  we  whirled  away  down  the  pike  I  kept 
thinking  of  this  man — this  young  Englishman, 
who  had  come  to  America  and  elevated  himself 
into  the  position  of  vice-president  and  general- 
manager  of  the  Consolidated  Traction  Company, 
but,  absurdly  enough,  no  thought  of  the  lim- 
ousine nor  the  traction  company  came  into  my 


LONGEST  WAY  HOME  131 

musings.  I  thought  of  him  as  a  spirit — a  spirit- 
man,  who  had  lived  in  the  woods.  He  had  dwelt 
in  a  hut — or  a  cave — and  toiled  with  his  hands, 
hewing  down  trees,  burning  charcoal,  eating 
brown  bread  at  noon.  Then,  at  dusk,  he  laid 
aside  his  tools,  rumbling  homeward  in  a  great 
two-wheeled  cart,  whistling  as  he  went,  but  soft- 
ly— because  he  was  deep  in  thought. 

The  seven  ages  of  man  are  really  nothing  to 
be  compared  in  point  of  interest  with  the  dif- 
ferent conditions  of  mind  which  women  demand 
of  them. 

Very  young  girls  seek  about — often  in  vain — 
for  a  man  who  can  compel;  then  later,  they  de- 
mand one  who  can  feel;  afterward  their  own  ex- 
pansion clamors  for  one  who  can  understand — but 
the  final  stage  of  all  is  reached  when  the  feminine 
craving  can  not  be  satisfied  save  by  the  man  who 
can  achieve. 

This,  of  course,  indicates  that  the  woman 
herself  is  experienced — sometimes  even  to  the 
point  of  being  a  widow — but  it  is  decidedly  a 


132  AMAZING  GRACE 

satisfying  state  of  mind  when  it  is  once  reached, 
because  it  is  permanent. 

And  your  man  of  achievement  is  pretty  apt  to 
be  an  uncomplicated  human.  His  deepest  "prob- 
lem" is  how  to  make  the  voices  of  the  nightin- 
gale and  alarm  clock  harmonize.  For  he  is  a 
lover  between  suns — and  a  laborer  during  them. 

At  Solinski's  Japanese  tea-room  in  Union 
Street,  the  limousine  slowed  up.  The  band  was 
playing  The  Rosary  as  we  went  in,  for  it  was 
the  hour  of  the  afternoon  for  the  professional 
seers  and  seen  of  Oldburgh's  medium  world  to 
drop  in  off  the  sidewalks  for  half  an  hour  and 
dawdle  over  a  tutti-frutti.  The  ultra-sentimental 
music  always  gets  such  people  as  these — and  the 
high  excruciating  notes  of  this  love- wail  were 
ringing  out  with  an  intense  poignancy. 

"Each  hour  a  pearl — each  pearl  a  prayer — " 

"Which  table  do  you  prefer?"  my  companion 
asked  me,  but  for  a  moment  I  failed  to  answer. 
I  was  looking  up  at  the  clock,  and  I  saw  that  the 
hands  were  pointing  to  six.  I  had  met  Maitland 


LONGEST  WAY  HOME  133 

Tait  at  four! — Thus  I  had  two  pearls  already 
on  my  string,  I  reckoned. 

"Oh,  which  table — well,  farther  back,  per- 
haps!" 

I  came  down  to  earth  after  that,  for  getting 
acquainted  with  the  caprices  of  a  man's  appetite 
is  distinctly  an  earthly  joy.  Yet  it  certainly 
comes  well  within  the  joy  class,  for  nothing  else 
gives  you  the  comfortable  sense  of  possession 
that  an  intimate  knowledge  of  his  likes  and  dis- 
likes bestows. 

Just  after  the  "each-hour-a-pearl"  stage  you 
begin  to  feel  that  you  have  a  right  to  know 
whether  he  takes  one  lump  or  two!  And  the 
homely,  every-day  joys  are  decidedly  the  best. 
You  don't  tremble  at  the  sounds  of  a  man's  rub- 
ber heels  at  the  door,  perhaps,  after  you're  so 
well  acquainted  with  him  that  you've  set  him  a 
hasty  supper  on  the  kitchen  table,  or  your  fingers 
have  toyed  with  his  over  the  dear  task  of  baiting 
a  mouse-trap  together — but  he  gets  a  dearness  in 
this  phase  which  a  pedestal  high  as  Eiffel  Tower 


i34  AMAZING  GRACE 

couldn't  afford. — It  is  this  dearness  which  makes 
you  endure  to  see  Prince  Charming' s  coronet 
melted  down  into  ducats  to  buy  certified  milk! 

"And  what  are — those?"  Maitland  Tait  asked, 
after  the  tea-service  was  before  us,  and  I  had 
poured  his  cup.  He  was  looking  about  the  place 
with  a  frank  interest,  and  his  gaze  had  lighted 
upon  a  group  of  marcelled,  manicured  manikins 
at  a  near-by  table.  They  were  chattering  and 
laughing  in  an  idly  nervous  fashion. 

I  dropped  in  two  lumps  of  sugar  and  passed 
him  his  cup. 

"They  are  wives,"  I  answered. 

"What?" 

"Just  wives." 

Being  English,  it  took  him  half  a  second  to 
smile — but  when  he  did  I  forgave  him  the  delay. 

"Just  wives?  Then  that  means  not  mothers, 
nor  helpmeets,  nor — " 

"Nor  housekeepers,  nor  suffragettes,  nor 
saints,  nor  sinners,  nor  anything  else  that  the 


LONGEST  WAY  HOME  135 

Lord  intended,  nor  apprehended,"  I  finished  up 
with  a  fierce  suddenness,  for  that  was  what  Guil- 
ford  wanted  me  to  be.  "They're  just  wives." 

He  stirred  his  tea  thoughtfully. 

"That's  what  I  find  all  over  America,"  he  said, 
but  not  with  the  air  of  making  a  discovery. 
"Men  must  work,  and  women  must  eat." 

"And  the  sooner  it's  over  the  sooner  to — the 
opera,"  I  said. 

He  looked  at  me  in  surprise. 

"Then  you  recognize  it?"  he  asked. 

"Recognize  it?  Of  course  /  recognize  it — 
but  I'm  not  a  fair  sample.  I  work  for  my  living." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  looking  at  the 
manikins  with  a  sort  of  half-hearted  pity. 

"If  they  could  all  be  induced  to  work  they'd 
not  be  what  they  are — to  men,"  he  observed. 

"To  men?" 

"I  find  that  an  American  wife  is  a  tormenting 
side-issue  to  a  man's  busy  life,"  he  said,  with  a 
tinge  of  regret.  "And  I  am  sorry,  too — for  they 


136  AMAZING  GRACE 

are  most  charming.  For  my  part,  I  should  like 
a  woman  who  could  do  things — who  was  clever 
enough  to  be  an  inspiration." 

I  nodded  heartily,  forgetful  of  personalities. 

"I  too  like  the  workers  in  the  world,"  I  coin- 
cided. "My  ideal  man  is  one  whose  name  will 
be  made  into  a  verb." 

He  laughed. 

"Like  Marconi,  eh,  and  Pasteur — and—" 

"And  Boycott,  and  Macadam,  and — oh,  a  host 
of  others!" 

It  was  quite  a  full  minute  before  he  spoke 
again. 

"I  don't  see  how  I  could  make  my  name  into  a 
verb,"  he  said  quietly,  "but  I  must  begin  to  think 
about  it.  It  is  certainly  a  valuable  suggestion." 

It  was  my  turn  to  laugh,  which  I  did,  nervously. 

"In  Oldburgh,  Tait  seems  to  stand  for  the 
opposite  of  dictate,"  I  hazarded.  "That  means 
to  talk,  and  you  won't — talk." 

"But  I  am  talking,"  he  insisted.  "I'm  asking 
you  questions  as  fast  as  ever  I  can." 


LONGEST  WAY  HOME  137 

"However,  your  technique  is  wrong,"  I  replied. 
"You  shouldn't  ask  questions  of  a  newspaper 
woman.  You  should  let  her  ask  the  questions, 
and  you  should  furnish  the  answers." 

"But  you're  not  a  newspaper  woman  now,  are 
you?"  he  demanded  in  some  alarm.  "I  hope  not 
— and  certainly  I  must  ask  you  questions  before 
I  begin  to  tell  you  things.  There  are  quite  a  few 
facts  which  I  wish  to  find  out  now." 

"And  they  are,  first—?" 

"Where  you  live?" 

I  told  him,  and  he  took  from  his  pocket  a  small 
leather  book  with  his  name,  Maitland  Tait,  and 
an  address  in  smaller  letters  which  I  could  not 
make  out,  on  the  inside  lining.  In  a  small,  rather 
cramped  hand,  he  wrote  the  address  I  gave  him, 
"1919  West  Clydemont  Place,"  then  looked  up  at 
me. 

"Next?"  I  laughed,  in  a  flutter. 

"Next  I  want  to  know  when  you  will  let  me 
come  to  see  you?" 

"When?"  I  repeated,  rather  blankly. 


138  AMAZING  GRACE 

He  drew  slightly  back. 

"I  should  have  said,  of  course,  if  you  will  let 
me  come,  but — " 

"But  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  have  you  come," 
I  made  haste  to  explain.  "I — I  was  only  think- 
ing!" 

I  was  thinking  of  my  betrothed — for  the  first 
time  that  afternoon. 

"The  length  of  time  I  am  to  stay  in  the  South 
is  very  uncertain,"  he  went  on  to  explain  with  a 
gentle  dignity.  "At  first  it  appeared  that  I  might 
have  to  make  a  long  stay,  but  we  are  settling  our 
affairs  so  satisfactorily  that  I  may  be  able  to  get 
back  to  Pittsburgh  at  any  time  now.  That's 
why  I  feel  that  I  can't  afford  to  lose  a  single  day 
in  doing  the  really  important  things." 

"Then  come,"  I  said,  with  a  friendly  show, 
which  was  in  truth  a  desperate  spirit  of  abandon. 
"Come  some  day — " 

"To-morrow?"  he  asked. 

"To-morrow — at  four." 

But  during  the  rest  of  the  meal  grandfather  and 


LONGEST  WAY  HOME  139 

Uncle  Lancelot  came  and  took  their  places  on 
either  side  of  me.  They  were  distinctly  de  trop, 
but  I  could  not  get  rid  of  them. 

"This  is — really  the  wrong  thing  to  do,  Grace," 
grandfather  said,  so  soberly  that  when  I  rose  to 
go  and  looked  in  the  mirror  to  see  that  my  hat 
was  all  right,  his  own  sad  blue  eyes  were  looking 
out  at  me  in  perplexed  reproach.  " — Very 
wrong." 

Then  the  sad  blue  eyes  took  in  the  lower  part 
of  my  face.  I  believe  I've  neglected  to  say  that 
there  is  a  dimple  in  my  chin,  and  Uncle  Lancelot's 
spirit  is  a  cliff-dweller  living  there.  He  comes 
out  and  taunts  the  thoughtful  eyes  above. 

"Nonsense,  parson!"  he  expostulated  jauntily 
now.  "Look  on  the  lips  while  they  are  red! 
She's  young!" 

"Youth  doesn't  excuse  folly,"  said  grandfather 
severely. 

"It  exudes  it,  however,"  the  other  argued. 

I  turned  away,  resolutely,  from  their  bickering. 
I  had  enough  to  contend  with  besides  them — for 


140  AMAZING  GRACE 

suddenly  I  had  begun  wondering  what  on  earth 
mother  would  say,  after  she'd  said:  "Grace, 
you  amaze  me !" 


CHAPTER  IX 

MAITLAND  TAIT 

THE  only  difference  between  the  houses  in 
West  Clydemont  Place  and  museums  was 
that  there  was  no  admission  fee  at  the  front  door. 
Otherwise  they  were  identical,  for  the  "auld  lang 
syne"  flavor  greeted  you  the  moment  you  put 
foot  into  that  corner  of  the  town.  You  knew 
instinctively  that  every  family  there  owned  its 
own  lawn-mower  and  received  crested  invita- 
tions in  the  morning  mail. 

Yet  it  was  certainly  not  fashionable!  Indeed, 
from  a  butler-and-porte-cochere  standpoint  it  was 
shabby.  The  business  of  owning  your  own  laWn- 
mower  arises  from  a  state  of  mind,  rather  than 
from  a  condition  of  finances,  anyway.  We  were 
poor,  but  aloof — and  strung  high  with  the  past- 
141 


142  AMAZING  GRACE 

tension.  The  admiral,  the  ambassador  and  the 
artist  rubbed  our  aristocracy  in  on  any  stray 
caller  who  lingered  in  the  hall,  if  they  had  failed 
to  be  pricked  by  it  on  the  point  of  grandfather's 
jeweled  sword  in  the  library. 

I  saw  1919  through  a  new  vista  as  I  came  up 
to  it  in  the  late  dusk,  following  the  Flag  Day 
reception,  and  I  wondered  what  the  effect  of  all 
this  antiquity  would  be  on  the  mind  of  a  man 
who  so  clearly  disregarded  the  grandfather  clause 
in  one's  book  of  life.  I  hoped  that  he  would  be 
amused  by  it,  as  he  had  been  by  the  long-tailed 
D.  A.  R.  badge  on  my  coat. 

"You'd  better  have  a  little  fire  kindled  up  in 
the  library,  Grace,"  mother  observed  chillingly 
just  after  lunch  that  next  afternoon.  "It's  true 
it's  June,  but—" 

"But  the  day  is  bleak  and  raw,"  I  answered, 
with  a  sudden  cordial  sense  of  relief  that  she  was 
on  speaking  terms  with  me  again.  "Certainly 
I'll  tell  Cicely  to  make  a  fire." 

"The  dampness  of  the  day  has  nothing  at  all 


MAITLAND  TAIT  143 

to  do  with  it,"  she  kept  on  with  frozen  evenness. 
"I  suggested  it  because  a  fire  is  a  safe  place  for  a 
girl  to  look  into  while  her  profile  is  being  studied." 

"Mother!" 

Her  sense  of  outraged  propriety  suddenly 
slipped  its  leash. 

"It  keeps  her  eyes  looking  earnest,  instead  of 
eager,"  she  burst  out.  "And  any  girl  who'd  let 
a  man — allow  a  man — to  run  away  from  a  party 
whose  very  magnificence  was  induced  on  his  ac- 
count, and  take  her  off  to  tea  in  a  public  place, 
and  come  to  see  her  the  very  next  afternoon — a 
stranger,  and  a  foreigner  at  that — is — is  playing 
with  fire!" 

"You  mean  she'd  better  be  playing  with  fire 
while  he's  calling?"  I  asked  quietly.  "We  must 
remember  to  have  the  old  andirons  polished, 
then." 

She  stopped  in  her  task  of  dusting  the  parlor — 
whose  recesses  without  the  shining  new  player- 
piano  suddenly  looked  as  bare  and  empty  as  a 
shop- window  just  after  the  holidays. 


144  AMAZING  GRACE 

"You  wilfully  ignore  my  warning,"  she  de- 
clared. "If  this  man  left  that  party  yesterday 
and  comes  calling  to-day,  of  course  he's  im- 
pressed! And  if  you  let  him,  of  course  you're 
impressed.  This  much  goes  without  saying;  but 
I  beg  you  to  be  careful,  Grace!  You  happen  to 
have  those  very  serious,  betraying  eyes,  and  I 
want  you  to  guard  them  while  he's  here !" 

"By  keeping  my  hands  busy,  eh?"  I  laughed. 
"Well,  I'll  promise,  mother,  if  that'll  be  any  re- 
lief to  you." 

So  the  fire  was  kindled,  as  a  preventative 
measure ;  and  at  four  o'clock  he  came — not  on  the 
stroke,  but  ten  minutes  after.  I  was  glad  that 
he  had  patronized  the  street  railway  service  for 
this  call,  and  left  the  limousine  in  its  own  bou- 
doir— you  couldn't  imagine  anything  so  exquisite 
being  kept  in  a  lesser  place — or  I'm  afraid  that 
our  little  white-capped  maid  would  have  mis- 
taken it  for  an  ambulance  and  assured  him  that 
nobody  was  sick.  Gleaming  blue  limousines 
were  scarce  in  that  section. 


MAITLAND  TAIT  145 

"Am  I  early?"  he  asked,  after  we  had  shaken 
hands  and  he  had  glanced  toward  the  fire  with  a 
little  surprised,  gratified  expression.  "I  wasted 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  waiting  for  this  car." 

Now,  a  woman  can  always  forgive  a  man  for 
being  late,  if  she  knows  he  started  on  time,  so 
with  this  reassurance  I  began  to  feel  at  home 
with  him.  I  leaned  over  and  stirred  the  fire 
hospitably — to  keep  my  eyes  from  showing  just 
how  thoroughly  at  home  I  felt. 

"No — you  are  not  early.  I  was  expecting  you 
at  four,  and — and  mother  will  be  down  pres- 
ently." 

He  studied  my  profile. 

"I  was  out  at  the  golf  club  dance  last  night," 
he  said,  after  a  pause,  with  a  certain  abruptness 
which  I  had  found  characterized  his  more  im- 
portant parts  of  speech.  I  stood  the  tongs  against 
the  marble  mantlepiece  and  drew  back  from  the 
flame. 

"Was  it — enjoyable?"  I  asked  politely. 

"Extremely.      Mrs.    Walker   was   there,   and 


146  AMAZING  GRACE 

she  had  very  kindly  forgiven  me  for  my  defec- 
tion of  the  afternoon.  In  fact,  she  was  dis- 
tinctly cordial.  She  talked  to  me  a  great  deal  of 
you  and  your  mother." 

My  heart  sank.  It  always  does  when  I  find 
that  my  women  friends  have  been  talking  a  great 
deal  about  me. 

"Oh,  did  she?" 

"She  is  very  fond  of  you,  it  seems — and  very 
puzzled  by  you." 

"Puzzled  because  I  work  for  the  Herald?" 

I  spoke  breathlessly,  for  I  wondered  if  Mrs. 
Walker  had  told  of  the  Guilford  Blake  puzzle, 
as  well;  but  after  one  look  into  the  candid  half- 
amused  eyes  I  knew  that  this  information  had 
been  withheld. 

"Well,  yes.  She  touched  upon  that,  among 
other  things." 

"But  what  things?"  I  asked  impatiently.  At 
the  door  I  heard  the  maid  with  the  tea  tray.  "I 
suppose,  however,  just  the  usual  things  that  peo- 
ple tell  about  us.  That  we  have  been  homeless 


MAITLAND  TAIT  147 

and  penniless — except  for  this  old  barn — since  I 
was  a  baby,  and  that,  one  by  one,  the  pomps  of 
power  have  been  stripped  from  us?" 

He  looked  at  me  soberly  for  a  moment. 

"Yes,  she  told  me  all  this,"  he  said. 

"And  that  our  historic  rosewood  furniture  was 
sold,  years  ago,  to  Mrs.  Hartwell  Gill,  the 
grocer's  wife  who  used  the  chair-legs  as  batter- 
ing-rams ?" 

He  smiled. 

"Against  Oldburgh's  unwelcoming  doors? 
Yes." 

"And  that—" 

"That  you  belonged  to  the  most  artistocratic 
family  in  the  whole  state,"  he  interrupted  softly. 
"So  aristocratic  that  even  the  possession  of  the 
rosewood  furniture  is  an  open  sesame!  And  of 
course  this  state  is  noted  for  its  blooded  beings, 
even  in  my  own  country." 

"Really?"  I  asked,  with  a  little  gratified  sur- 
prise. 

"Indeed,   yes!"   he   replied    earnestly.     "And 


148  AMAZING  GRACE 

Mrs.  Walker  told  me  something  that  I  had  not  in 
the  least  thought  to  surmise — that  you  are  a 
descendant  of  the  famous  artist,  Christie.  I 
don't  know  why  I  happened  not  to  think  about  it, 
for  the  name  is  one  which  an  Englishman  in- 
stantly connects  with  portrait  galleries.  He 
was  very  favorably  known  on  our  side." 

"Yes.  He  had  a  very  remarkable — a  very 
pathetic  history,"  I  said. 

Turning  around,  he  glanced  at  a  small  portrait 
across  the  room. 

"Is — is  this  James  Christie?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.     There  is  a  larger  one  in  the  hall." 

He  walked  across  the  room  and  examined  the 
portrait.  After  a  perfunctory  survey,  which  did 
not  include  any  very  close  examination  of  the 
strong  features — rugged  and  a  little  harsh,  and 
by  no  means  the  glorious  young  face  which  had 
been  a  lodestar  to  Lady  Frances  Webb — he 
turned  back  to  me.  For  a  moment  I  fancied 
that  he  was  going  to  say  something  bitter  and 
impulsive — something  that  held  a  tinge  of  mass- 


MAITLAND  TAIT  149 

hatred  for  class,  but  his  expression  changed  sud- 
denly. I  saw  that  his  impulse  had  passed,  and 
that  what  he  would  say  next  would  be  an  after- 
thought. 

"Do  you  care  for  him — for  this  sort  of  thing?" 
he  asked,  waving  his  hand  carelessly  toward  the 
other  portraits  in  the  room  and  toward  the 
sword,  lying  there  in  an  absurd  sort  of  harmless- 
ness  beneath  its  glass  case.  "I  imagined  that  you 
didn't." 

He  spoke  with  a  tinge  of  disappointment.  Evi- 
dently he  was  sorry  to  find  me  so  pedigreed  a 
person. 

"I  do — and  I  don't,"  I  answered,  coming 
across  the  room  to  his  side  and  drawing  back  a 
curtain  to  admit  a  better  light.  "I  certainly  care 
for— him." 

"The  artist?" 

"Yes." 

"But  why?"  he  demanded,  with  a  sudden  twist 
of  perversity  to  his  big  well-shaped  mouth.  "To 
me  it  seems  such  a  waste  of  time — this  sentiment 


150  AMAZING  GRACE 

for  romantic  antiquity.  But  I  am  not  an  un- 
prejudiced judge,  I  admit.  I  have  spent  all  the 
days  of  my  life  hating  aristocracy." 

"Oh,  my  feeling  for  him  is  not  caused  by  his 
aristocracy,"  I  made  haste  to  explain.  "And  in- 
deed, the  Christies  were  very  commonplace  peo- 
ple until  he  elevated  them  into  the  ranks  of  fame. 
He  was  not  only  an  artist  of  note,  but  he  was  a 
very  strong  man.  It  is  this  part  of  his  history 
that  I  revere,  and  when  I  was  a  very  young  girl 
I  'adopted'  him — from  all  the  rest  of  my  an- 
cestors— to  be  the  one  I'd  care  for  and  feel  a  pride 
in." 

He  smiled. 

"Of  course  you  don't  understand,"  I  attempted 
to  explain  with  a  little  flurry.  "No  man  would 
ever  think  of  adopting  an  ancestor,  but — " 

He  interrupted  me,  his  smile  growing  gentler. 

"I  think  I  understand,"  he  said.  "I  did  the 
selfsame  thing,  years  ago  when  I  was  a  boy. 
But  my  circumstances  were  rather  different  from 
yours.  I  selected  my  grandfather — my  mother's 


MAITLAND  TAIT  .151 

father,  because  he  was  clean  and  fine  and  strong ! 
He  was — he  was  a  collier  in  Wales." 

"A  collier?"  I  repeated,  wondering  for  the 
moment  over  the  unaccustomed  word. 

"A  coal-miner,"  he  explained  briefly.  "He 
was  honest  and  kind-hearted — and  I  took  him 
for  my  example.  He  left  me  no  heirlooms 
that—" 

I  turned  away,  looking  at  the  room's  furnish- 
ings with  a  feeling  of  reckless  contempt. 

"Heirlooms  are — are  a  nuisance  to  keep 
dusted!"  I  declared  quickly. 

"Yet  you  evidently  like  them,"  he  said,  as  we 
took  our  places  again  before  the  fire,  and  the 
little  maid,  in  her  nervous  haste,  made  an  un- 
necessary number  of  trips  in  and  out.  The  fire- 
light was  glowing  ruddily  over  the  silver  things 
on  the  tea-table,  and  looking  up,  I  caught  his 
eyes  resting  upon  the  ring  I  wore — Guil ford's 
scarab.  "That  ring  is  likely  an  heirloom?" 

"Yes — the  story  goes  that  Mariette  himself 
found  it,"  I  elucidated,  slipping  the  priceless  old 


152  AMAZING  GRACE 

bit  of  stone  off  my  hand  and  handing  it  to  him 
to  examine. 

But  as  I  talked  my  head  was  buzzing,  for 
grandfather  was  at  one  ear  and  Uncle  Lancelot 
was  at  the  other. 

"Grace,  you  ought  to  tell  him!"  grandfather 
commanded  sharply.  "Tell  him  this  minute! 
Say  to  him:  'This  ring  is  an  heirloom  in  the 
family  of  my  betrothed.' ' 

"Rot,  parson!"  came  in  Uncle  Lancelot's  dear 
comforting  tones.  "Shall  a  young  woman  take 
it  for  granted  that  every  man  who  admires  the 
color  of  her  eyes  is  interested  in  her  entire  his- 
tory?— Why,  it  would  be  absolutely  indelicate 
of  Grace  to  tell  this  man  that  she's  engaged.  It's 
simply  none  of  his  business." 

"You'll  see !  You'll  see !"  grandfather  warned 
— and  my  heart  sank,  for  when  a  member  of  your 
family  warns  you  that  you'll  see,  the  sad  part  of 
it  is  that  you  will  see. 

"It's  a  royal  scarab,  isn't  it?"  Maitland  Tait 


MAITLAND  TAIT  153 

asked,  turning  the  ancient  beetle  over  and  view- 
ing the  inscription  on  the  flat  side. 

"Yes — perhaps — oh,  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure," 
I  answered  in  a  bewildered  fashion.  Then  sud- 
denly I  demanded:  "But  what  else  did  Mrs. 
Walker  tell  you?  Surely  she  didn't  leave  off 
with  the  mention  of  one  illustrious  member  of 
my  family." 

"She  told  me  about  your  great-aunt — the  queer 
old  lady  who  left  James  Christie's  relics  to  you 
because  you  were  the  only  member  of  the  family 
who  didn't  keep  a  black  bonnet  in  readiness  for 
her  funeral,"  he  laughed,  as  he  handed  me  back 
the  ring. 

"They  were  just  a  batch  of  letters,"  I  cor- 
rected, "not  any  other  relics." 

"Yes — the  letters  written  by  Lady  Frances 
Webb,"  he  said. 

It  was  my  turn  to  laugh. 

"I  knew  that  Mrs.  Walker  must  have  been 
talkative,"  I  declared.  "She  didn't  tell  you  the 


154  AMAZING  GRACE 

latest  touch  of  romance  in  connection  with  those 
letters,  did  she?" 

He  was  looking  into  the  fire,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  deep  thought  fulness;  and  I  studied  his 
profile  for  a  moment. 

"Late  romance  ?"  he  asked  in  a  puzzled  fashion, 
as  he  turned  to  me. 

"A  publishing  company  has  made  me  an  offer 
to  publish  those  letters!  To  make  them  into  a 
stunning  'best-seller,'  with  a  miniature  portrait 
of  Lady  Frances  Webb,  as  frontispiece,  I  dare 
say,  and  the  oftenest-divorce'd  illustrator  in 
America  to  furnish  pictures  of  Colmere  Abbey, 
with  the  lovers  mooning  'by  Norman  stone !' ' 

He  was  silent  for  a  little  while. 

"No,  she  didn't  tell  me  this,"  he  finally  an- 
swered. 

"Then  it  is  because  she  doesn't  know  it !"  I  ex- 
plained. "You  see,  mother  is  still  too  grieved 
to  mention  the  matter  to  any  one  by  telephone — 
and  it  happens  that  she  hasn't  met  Mrs.  Walker 
face  to  face  since  the  offer  was  made," 


MAITLAND  TAIT  155 

"And — rejected?"  he  asked,  with  a  little  smile. 

"Yes,  but  how  did  you  know?" 

The  smile  sobered. 

"There  are  some  things  one  knows/'  he  an- 
swered. "Yet,  after  all,  what  are  you  going  to 
do  with  the  letters?  If  you  don't  publish  them 
now  how  are  you  going  to  be  sure  that  some 
other — some  future  possessor  will  not?" 

"I  can't  be  sure — that's  the  reason  I'm  not 
going  to  run  any  risks,"  I  told  him.  "I'm  going 
to  burn  them." 

He  started. 

"But  that  would  be  rather  a  pity,  wouldn't  it?" 
he  asked.  "She  was  such  a  noted  writer  that  I 
imagine  her  letters  are  full  of  literary  value." 

"It  would  be  a  cold-blooded  thing  for  me  to 
do,"  I  said  thoughtfully.  "I've  an  idea  that  some 
day  I'll  take  them  back  to  England  and — and 
burn  them  there." 

"A  sort  of  feeling  that  they'd  enjoy  being 
buried  on  their  native  soil?"  he  asked. 

"I'll  take  them  to  Colmere  Abbey — her  pldi 


156  AMAZING  GRACE 

home,"  I  explained.  "To  me  the  place  has 
always  been  a  house  of  dreams!  She  describes 
portions  of  the  gardens  in  her  letters — tells  him 
of  new  flower-beds  made,  of  new  walls  built — 
of  the  sun-dial.  I  have  always  wanted  to  go 
there,  and  some  day  I  shall  bundle  all  these  letters 
up  and  pack  them  in  the  bottom  of  a  steamer 
trunk — to  have  a  big  bonfire  with  them  on  the 
very  same  hearth  where  she  burned  his." 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  THE  FIRELIGHT 

AjAIN  there  was  a  silence,  but  it  was  not  the 
kind  of  silence  that  gives  consent.  On  the 
other  hand  his  look  of  severity  was  positively 
discouraging. 

"If  I  may  inquire,  what  do  you  know  about 
this  place — this  Colmere  Abbey?"  he  finally 
asked.  "I  mean,  do  you  know  anything  of  it  in 
this  century — whether  it's  still  standing  or  not — 
or  anything  at  all  save  what  your  imagination 
pictures?" 

It  was  a  rather  lawyer-like  query,  and  I  shook 
my  head,  feeling  somewhat  nonplused. 

"No— nothing!" 

"Then,  if  you  should  go  to  England,  how 
would  you  set  about  finding  out?" 

"Oh,  that  wouldn't  be  so  bad.  In  fact,  I  be- 
157 


158  AMAZING  GRACE 

lieve  it  would  be  a  unique  experience  to  go 
journeying  to  a  spot  with  nothing  more  recent 
than  a  Washington  Irving  sketch  as  guide-book." 

He  looked  at  me  half  pityingly. 

"You  might  be  disappointed,"  he  said  gently. 
"For  my  part,  I  have  never  taken  up  a  moment's 
time  mooning  about  people's  ancestral  estates — • 
I've  had  too  much  real  work  to  do — but  I  happen 
to  know  that  residents  often  fight  shy  of  tourists." 

I  had  a  feeling  of  ruffled  dignity. 

"Of  course — tourists!"  I  answered,  bridling  a 
little. 

"Because,"  he  hastened  to  explain,  "the  own- 
ers of  the  places  can  so  often  afford  to  live  at 
home  only  a  short  season  every  year.  Many  of 
them  are  poor,  and  the  places  they  own  are 
mortgaged  to  the  turrets." 

"And  the  shut-up  delapidation  would  not  make 
pleasant  sight-seeing  for  rich  Americans?" 

He  nodded. 

"I  happen  to  have  heard  some  such  report 
about  this  Colmere  Abbey — years  ago,"  he  said. 


IN  THE  FIRELIGHT  159 

"Are  you  sure  it  was  the  same  place  ?"  I  asked, 
my  heart  suddenly  bounding.  "Colmere,  in 
Lancashire  ?" 

"Quite  sure!  I  was  brought  up  in  Notting- 
ham, and  have  heard  of  the  estate,  but  have 
never  seen  it." 

"Then  it's  still  there — my  house  of  dreams?" 

For  a  moment  I  waited,  palpitatingly,  for  him 
to  say  more,  but  he  only  looked  at  me  musingly, 
then  back  into  the  fire.  After  a  second  he  leaned 
forward,  shaking  his  unruly  hair  back,  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  rid  himself  from  a  haunting 
thought. 

"I — I  can't  talk  about  'landed  gentry,'  "  he 
said,  turning  to  me  with  a  quick  fierceness.  "I 
grow  violent  when  I  do!  You've  no  idea  how 
hateful  the  whole  set  is  to  a  man  who  has  had  to 
make  his  own  way  in  the  world — against  them!" 
Then,  after  this  burst  of  resentment,  his  mood 
seemed  to  change.  "But  we  must  talk  about 
England,"  he  added,  with  a  hasty  gentleness. 
"There  are  so  many  delightful  things  we  can  dis- 


160  AMAZING  GRACE 

cuss!  Tell  me,  have  you  been  there?  Do  you 
like  it?" 

I  nodded  an  energetic  affirmative. 

"I  have  been  there  and — I  love  it !  But  it  was 
a  long  while  ago,  and  I  wasn't  old  enough  to 
understand  about  the  things  which  would  interest 
me  most  now." 

"A  long  while  ago  ?" 

"Yes — let  me  see — ten  years,  I  believe !  At  all 
events  it  was  the  summer  after  we  sold  the  rose- 
wood furniture — and  the  piano.  Mother  was  so 
amazed  at  herself  for  having  the  nerve  to  part 
with  the  grand  piano  that  she  had  to  take  a  sea- 
voyage  to  recover  herself." 

"But  what  a  happy  idea!"  he  commented  seri- 
ously, as  he  looked  around.  "A  grand  piano 
would  really  be  a  nuisance  in  this  cozy  room." 

For  a  long  time  afterward  I  wondered  whether 
my  very  deepest  feeling  of  admiration  for  him 
had  been  born  at  the  moment  I  looked  at  him 
first,  or  when  he  made  this  remark.  But  I've 
found  it's  as  hard  to  ascertain  Love's  birthday 


IN  THE  FIRELIGHT  161 

as  it  is  to  settle  the  natal  hour  of  a  medieval 
author. 

"How  long  have  you  been  in  America  ?"  I  next 
asked,  abruptly;  and  he  looked  relieved. 

"Ten  years — off  and  on,"  he  answered  briskly. 
"Most  of  the  time  in  Pittsburgh,  for  my  grand- 
father had  chosen  that  place  for  me.  He  would 
not  have  consented  to  my  going  back  to  England 
often,  if  he  had  lived,  but  I  have  been  back  a 
number  of  times,  for  I  love  journeying  over  the 
face  of  the  earth — and,  strange  as  it  may  seem, 
I  love  England.  Some  day — when  things — when 
my  affairs — are  in  different  shape  over  there  I 
shall  go  back  to  stay." 

The  tea  things  were  finally  arranged  by  Cicely's 
nervous  dusky  hands,  and  with  a  cordial  showing 
of  the  letter-but-not-spir it-hospitality,  mother  ap- 
peared, in  the  wake  of  the  steaming  kettle. 

Her  expression  said  more  plainly  than  words 
that  she  would  do  the  decent  thing  or  die. 

"I  was  — "  she  began  freezingly,  as  we  both 
arose  to  greet  her,  "I  was  — " 


i62  AMAZING  GRACE 

She  took  in  at  a  glance  Maitland  Tait's  gigantic 
size,  and  shrank  back — a  little  frightened.  Then 
his  good  clothes  reassured  her.  A  giant  who 
patronizes  a  good  New  York  tailor  is  a  cut  above 
an  ordinary  giant,  she  evidently  admitted. 

" —  detained,"  she  added,  with  the  air  of  mak- 
ing a  concession.  She  accepted  the  chair  he  drew 
up  for  her,  and  his  down-to-the-belt  grace  began 
making  itself  conspicuous.  She  looked  him  over, 
and  her  jaundiced  eye  lost  something  of  its  color. 

" —  unavoidably,"  she  plead,  with  a  regretful 
prettiness. 

Then  she  made  the  tea,  and  when  she  saw  how 
caressingly  the  big  man's  smooth  brown  hands 
managed  his  cup,  the  remaining  thin  layer  of  ice 
over  her  cordiality  melted,  and  she  became  the 
usual  charming  mother  of  a  marriageable  daugh- 
ter. While  she  was  at  all  times  absolutely  loyal 
to  Guilford,  still  she  knew  that  a  mother's  appear- 
ance is  a  daughter's  asset,  and  she  had  always 
laid  up  treasures  for  me  in  this  manner. 

"You  were  at  Mrs.  Walker's  Flag  Day  recep- 


IN  THE  FIRELIGHT  163 

tion  yesterday  Grace  tells  me?"  she  inquired  as 
casually  as  if  a  bloody  battle  of  words  had  not 
been  waging  over  the  occurrence  all  morning. 
"And  Mrs.  Kendall  was  talking  with  me  this 
morning  on  the  telephone  about  her  dance  Friday 
night  — " 

She  paused,  looking  at  him  interrogatively,  be- 
cause that  had  been  Mrs.  Kendall's  own  emotion 
when  mentioning  the  matter. 

Mr.  Tait  glanced  toward  me. 

"Ah,  yes — I  had  forgotten!  You  will  be 
there?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered  hastily,  and  mother  came 
near  scalding  the  kitten  on  the  rug  in  the  excess 
of  her  surprise.  All  morning,  through  the  smoke 
of  battle,  I  had  sent  vehement  protestations 
against  having  my  white  tissue  redraped  for  the 
occasion,  declaring  that  nothing  could  induce  me 
to  go. 

"I  find  that  one  usually  goes  to  no  less  than 
three  social  affairs  on  a  trip  like  this — and  I—- 
well, I'm  afraid  I'm  rather  an  unsocial  brute!  I 


164  AMAZING  GRACE 

select  the  biggest  things  to  go  to,  for  one  has  to 
talk  less,  and  there  is  a  better  chance  of  getting 
away  early,"  he  explained. 

Mother  left  the  room  soon  after  this — the  sud- 
den change  of  decision  about  the  dance  had  been 
too  much  for  her.  Even  perfect  clothes  and 
well-bred  hands  and  a  graceful  waist-line  could 
not  make  her  forgive  this  in  me.  She  made  a 
hasty  excuse  and  left. 

Then  our  two  chairs  shifted  themselves  back 
into  their  former  positions  before  the  fire  and  we 
talked  on  in  the  gloaming.  Somehow,  since  that 
outburst  of  anger  against  the  present-day  owners 
of  Colmere  Abbey,  the  vision  of  the  big  man — the 
cave-man — in  the  coat  of  goatskins,  with  the  bare 
knees  and  moccasins,  had  come  back  insistently. 

Yet  it  was  just  a  vision,  and  after  a  few  min- 
utes it  vanished — after  the  manner  of  visions 
since  the  world  began.  He  looked  out  the  win- 
dow at  the  creeping  darkness  and  rose  to  go. 

"Then  I'm  to  see  you  Friday  night?"  he  asked 
at  parting. 


IN  THE  FIRELIGHT  165 

"Yes." 

"I'm— I'm  glad." 

There  had  been  a  green  and  gold  sunset  behind 
the  trees  in  the  park  across  the  way,  and  after  a 
moment  more  he  was  lost  in  this  weird  radiance ; 
then  he  suddenly  came  to  view  again,  in  the  glow 
of  electric  light  at  the  corner. 

A  car  to  the  city  swung  round  the  curve  just 
then,  and  a  dark  figure,  immensely  tall  in  the 
shadows,  stepped  from  the  pavement.  I  heard 
the  conductor  ring  up  a  fare — a  harsh  metallic 
note  that  indicated  finality  to  me — then  silence. 

"He's  gone — gone — gone !"  something  sad  and 
lonesome  was  saying  in  my  heart.  "What  if  he 
should  be  suddenly  called  back  to  Pittsburgh  and 
I  shouldn't  see  him  again  ?" 

To  see  the  very  last  of  him  I  had  dropped 
down  beside  the  front  door,  with  my  face  pressed 
against  the  lace-veiled  glass,  and  so  intent  was  I 
upon  my  task  that  I  had  entirely  failed  to  hear 
mother's  agitated  step  in  the  hall  above. 

I  was  brought  to,  however,  when  I  heard  the 


166  AMAZING  GRACE 

click  of  the  electric  switch  upon  the  stair.  The 
lower  hall  was  suddenly  flooded  with  light.  I 
scrambled  to  my  feet  as  quickly  as  I  could. 
Mother's  face,  peering  at  me  from  the  landing, 
was  already  pronouncing  sentence. 

"Grace,  I  was  just  coming  down  to  tell  you 
that — well,  I  am  compelled  to  say  that  you  amaze 
me !"  she  emitted  first,  with  a  tone  of  utter  hope- 
lessness struggling  through  her  newly-fired  anger. 
"Down  on  your  knees  in  your  new  gown — and 
gowns  as  scarce  as  angels'  visits,  too!" 

"Ah— but— I'm  sorry  — " 

"What  on  earth  are  you  doing  there  ?"  she  kept 
on. 

I  turned  to  her,  blinking  in  the  dazzling  light. 

"I  was — let  me  see? — oh,  yes\"  A  brilliant 
thought  had  just  come  to  me.  "~—  I  was  looking 
for  the  key!" 

Now,  I  happen  to  hate  a  liar  worse  than  any- 
thing else  on  earth,  and  I  hated  myself  fervently 
as  I  told  this  one. 

"The  key  ?"  she  asked  suspiciously. 


IN  THE  FIRELIGHT  167 

"It — it  had  fallen  on  the  floor,"  I  kept  on,  for 
of  course  whatever  you  do  you  must  do  with  all 
your  might,  as  we  learn  in  copy-book  days. 

"And  it  never  occurred  to  you  to  turn  on  the 
light?"  she  demanded,  coming  up  and  looking  at 
me  as  if  to  see  the  extent  of  disfigurement  this 
new  malady  had  wrought.  "Down  on  your 
knees  searching  for  a  key — and  it  never  occurred 
to  you  to  turn  on  the  light  ?" 

"No,"  I  answered,  thankful  to  be  able  to  tell 
the  truth  again.  "No,  it  never  once  occurred  to 
me!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

TWO  MEN  AND  A  MAID 

HAVE  you  ever  thought  that  the  reason  we 
can  so  fully  sympathize  with  certain  great 
people  of  history,  and  not  with  others,  is  because 
we  are  occasionally  granted  a  glimpse  of  the 
emotion  our  favorites  enjoyed — or  endured? 

For  instance,  no  man  who  has  ever  knocked 
the  "t"  out  of  "can't"  stands  beside  Napoleon's 
tomb  without  a  sensation  which  takes  the  form 
of:  "We  understand  each  other — don't  we,  old 
top?" 

And  every  year  at  spring-time,  Romeo  is 
patted  on  the  back  condescendingly  by  thousands 
of  youths — so  susceptible  that  they'd  fall  in  love 
with  anything  whose  skirt  and  waist  met  in  the 
back. 

168 


TWO  MEN  AND  A  MAID          169 

The  night  of  the  Kendalls'  dance  7  knew  what 
Cleopatra's  cosmic  consciousness  resembled — 
exactly.  I  knew  it  from  the  moment  she  glanced 
away  from  the  glint  of  her  silver  oars  of  the 
wonderful  Nile  barge  (because  the  glint  of  An- 
tony's dark  eyes  was  so  much  more  compelling) 
to  the  hour  she  recklessly  unwrapped  the  basket 
of  figs  in  her  death  chamber!  I  ran  the  whole 
gamut  of  her  emotions — 'twixt  love  and  duty — 
and  I  came  out  of  it  feeling  that — well,  certainly 
I  felt  that  a  conservatory  is  a  room  where  eaves- 
droppers hear  no  good  of  themselves! 

"Is  everybody  crazy  to-night?"  I  whispered 
to  Guilford,  as  we  paused  for  a  moment  before 
the  dancing  commenced  just  outside  one  of  the 
downy,  silky  reception  rooms — quite  apart  from 
the  noisy  ballroom  farther  back; — and  I  saw  two 
people  inside.  The  girl  was  seated  before  the 
piano,  and  was  singing  softly,  while  the  man 
stood  at  her  side,  listening  with  a  rapt  expression. 
"Who  would  ever  have  thought  that  that  girl 
would  be  singing  that  song  to  that  man  ?"  I  asked, 


1 70  AMAZING  GRACE 

with  a  quivery  little  feeling  that  the  world  was 
going  topsyturvy  with  other  people  besides  me. 
The  singer  was  the  careless,  rowdy  golf  champion 
of  the  state,  and  the  man  listening  was  Old- 
burgh's  astonishing  young  surgeon — the  kind 
who  never  went  anywhere  because  it  was  said  he 
laid  aside  his  scalpel  only  when  he  was  obliged 
to  pick  up  his  fork. 

"What  is  the  song?"  Guilford  inquired,  look- 
ing in,  then  drawing  back  softly  and  dropping  the 
curtain  that  screened  the  doorway. 

"Caro  Mio  Ben!" 

"A  love  song?" 

I  smiled. 

"Well,  rather!" 

Then  somebody  crowded  up  and  separated 
Guilford  and  me.  I  stood  there  listening  to  the 
lovely  Italian  words,  and  wondering  if  the  night 
were  in  truth  bewitched.  Guilford,  under  the 
impulse  induced  by  a  white  tissue  gown  and  big 
red  roses,  had  suffered  an  unusual  heart-action 
already  and  had  spent  half  an  hour  whispering 


TWO  MEN  AND  A  MAID          171 

things  in  my  ear  which  made  me  feel  embarrassed 
and  ashamed.  The  only  thing  which  can  pos- 
sibly make  a  lifelong  engagement  endurable  is 
the  brotherly  attitude  assumed  by  the  lover  in  his 
late  teens. 

"Come  in,"  he  said,  elbowing  his  way  back  to 
me  through  the  chattering  throng  of  the  autumn's 
debutantes,  after  a  few  minutes.  "I  hear  the 
violins  beginning  to  groan — and  say — haven't 
they  got  everybody  worth  having  here  to-night  ?" 

"I  don't — know,"  I  replied  vaguely,  looking 
up  and  down  the  length  of  the  room  that  we 
were  entering. 

"But — there's  Mrs.  Walker,  and  there  are  the 
Chester  girls,  and  Dan  Hunter,  just  back  from 
Africa — and — " 

"Certainly  they've  got  a  fine  selection  of  Old- 
burgh's  solid,  rolled-gold  ornaments,"  I  com- 
mented dryly,  as  my  eyes  searched  the  other  side 
of  the  room. 

"Oh,  besides  local  talent  in  plenty  to  create 
some  excitement,  there's  an  assortment  of  im- 


172  AMAZING  GRACE 

ported  artists,"  he  went  on.  "That  French  fel- 
low, d'Osmond,  has  been  teaching  some  of  the 
kids  a  new  figure  and  they're  going  to  try  it  to- 
night. Have  you  met  him?" 

"Yes,  indeed — oh,  no,  of  course  I  haven't  met 
him,  Guilford!"  I  answered  impatiently.  "How 
could  I  meet  a  stray  French  nobleman?  The 
society  editor  is  his  Boswell." 

He  turned  away,  hurt  at  my  show  of  irritation, 
but  I  didn't  care.  I  was  in  that  reckless  mood 
that  comes  during  a  great  fire,  or  a  storm  at  sea, 
or  any  other  catastrophe  when  the  trivialities  of 
living  fade  into  pygmy  proportions  before  the 
vast  desire  for  mere  life. 

"And  there's  that  Consolidated  Traction  Com- 
pany fellow,"  he  said  humbly,  calling  my  atten- 
tion to  a  bunch  of  new  arrivals  at  the  doors  of 
the  ballroom.  "What's  his  name  ?" 

"Maitland  Tait" 

"Have  you  met  him?"  he  inquired. 

Now  usually  Guilford  is  not  humble,  nor  even 
very  forgiving,  so  that  when  he  turned  to  me 


TWO  MEN  AND  A  MAID          173 

again  and  showed  that  he  was  determined  to  be 
entertaining  I  glanced  at  a  mirror  we  happened 
to  be  passing.  How  easy  it  would  be  to  keep 
men  right  where  we  wanted  them  if  life  could 
be  carried  on  under  frosted  lights,  in  white  tissue 
gowns,  holding  big  red  roses ! 

"Yes,  I've  met  him,"  I  answered  giddily.  "He 
was  at  Mrs.  Walker's  Flag  Day  reception  Tues- 
day— and  he  brought  me  to  town  in  his  car,  then 
came  calling  Wednesday  afternoon,  and — " 

Guilford  had  stopped  still  and  was  looking  at 
me  as  if  anxious  to  know  when  I'd  felt  the  first 
symptoms. 

"Oh,  it's  true,"  I  laughed  desperately. 

"Then  why " 

"Didn't  I  tell  you?" 

"Yes — that  is,  you  might  have  mentioned  it. 
Of  course,  it  really  makes  no  difference — "  He 
smiled,  dismissing  it  as  a  triviality. 

Gentle  reader,  I  don't  know  whether  your 
sympathies  have  secretly  been  with  Guilford  all 
the  time  or  not — but  I  know  that  mine  were  dis- 


174  AMAZING  GRACE 

tinctly  with  him  at  that  moment.  If  there  is 
ever  a  season  when  a  woman's  system  is  predis- 
posed toward  the  malady  known  as  sex  love,  it 
is  when  some  man  is  magnanimous  about  another 
man.  And  Guil ford's  manner  at  that  instant  was 
magnanimous — and  I  already  had  fifty-seven 
other  varieties  of  affection  for  him!  I  decided 
then,  in  the  twinkling  of  my  fan  chain,  which  I 
was  agitating  rather  mercilessly,  that  if  Guil  ford 
were  the  kind  of  a  man  I  could  love,  he'd  be  the 
very  man  I  should  adore. 

— But  he  wasn't.  And  the  kind  I  could  love 
was  disentangling  himself  from  the  group  around 
the  door  and  coming  toward  me  at  that  very 
moment 

"Have  you  met  him?"  I  asked  of  my  com- 
panion, trying  to  pretend  that  the  noise  was  my 
fan  chain  and  not  my  heart. 

"No." 

In  another  instant  they  were  shaking  hands 
cordially. 

"You'll  excuse  me  a  moment?"  Guilford  asked, 


TWO  MEN  AND  A  MAID          175 

turning  to  me — after  he  and  Maitland  Tait  had 
propounded  and  answered  perfunctory  questions 
about  Oldburgh.  "I  wanted  to  speak  to — Delia 
Ramage." 

I  had  never  before  in  my  life  heard  of  his 
wishing  to  speak  to  Delia  Ramage,  but  she  was 
the  nearest  one  to  him,  so  he  veered  across  to 
her  side,  while  I  was  left  alone  with  the  new 
arrival.  This  is  called  heaping  coals  of  fire. 

"I  was  glad  to  see  you — a  moment  ago,"  Mait- 
land Tait  said  in  that  low  intimate  tone  which 
is  usually '  begotten  only  by  daily  or  hourly 
thought.  Take  two  people  who  have  not  seen 
each  other  for  a  week,  nor  thought  of  each  other, 
and  when  they  meet  they  will  shrill  out  spon- 
taneous, falsetto  tones — but  not  so  with  two  peo- 
ple whose  spirits  have  communed  five  minutes 
before.  They  lower  their  voices  when  they  come 
face  to  face,  for  they  realize  that  they  are  before 
the  sanctum.  "You're  looking  most — unusually 
well." 

He  was  not,  but  I  refrained  from  telling  him 


176  AMAZING  GRACE 

so.  Most  thoughtful  men  assume  a  look  of  con- 
straint when  they  are  forced  to  mingle  with  a 
shallow-pated,  boisterous  throng,  and  he  was 
strictly  of  this  type — I  observed  it  with  a  thrill 
of  triumph. 

Yet  the  festive  appearance  of  evening  dress 
was  not  unbecoming  to  him.  His  was  that  kind 
of  magnificent  plainness  which  showed  to  advan- 
tage in  gala  attire,  and  I  knew  that  even  if  I 
could  get  him  off  to  live  the  life  of  a  cave-man, 
occasionally  a  processional  of  the  tribe  would 
cause  him  to  thrust  brilliant  feathers  into  his 
goatskin  cap  and  bind  his  sandals  with  gleaming 
new  thongs.  But  then  the  martial  excitement  of 
a  processional  would  cause  his  eyes  to  light  up 
with  a  brilliancy  to  match  the  feathers  in  his  cap, 
and  a  dance  could  not  do  this. 

"Of  course  you're  engaged  for  the  first 
dance  ?"  he  asked,  as  the  music  began  and  a  gen- 
eral commotion  ensued.  "I  knew  that  I'd  have 
to  miss  that — when  I  was  late.  But" — he  came 
a  step  closer  and  spoke  as  if  acting  under  some 


TWO  MEN  AND  A  MAID          177 

hasty  impulse — "I  want  to  tell  you  how  very 
lovely  I  think  you  are  to-night!  I  hope  you  do 
not  mind  my  saying  this?  I  didn't  know  it  be- 
fore— I  thought  it  was  due  to  other  influences — 
but  you  are  beautiful." 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  silver  oars  of 
the  Nile  barge  were  dimmed  under  the  greater 
resplendence  of  dark  eyes — and  the  purple  silk 
sails  closed  out  the  sky,  but  closed  in  heaven. 
Cleopatra  and  I  might  have  cut  our  teeth  on  the 
same  coral  ring,  for  all  the  inferiority  /  felt  to 
her  in  that  instant. 

"I — I'm  afraid — "  I  began  palpitatingly,  for 
you  must  know  that  palpitations  are  part  of  the 
Egyption  role — the  sense  of  danger  and  wrong 
were  what  raised — or  lowered — the  flitting  space 
of  time  out  of  the  ordinary  lover  thrills.  "I  am 
afraid " 

"But  you  must  not  say  that!"  he  commanded, 
his  deep  voice  muffled.  "This  is  just  the  begin- 
ning of  what  I  wish  to  say  to  you." 

I   wrenched   my   eyes    away    from   his — then 


178  AMAZING  GRACE 

looked  quickly  for  Guilford.  Grandfather 
Moore's  warnings  in  my  ear  were  choking  the 
violin  music  into  demoniac  howls.  I  don't  be- 
lieve that  any  woman  ever  really  enjoys  having 
two  men  love  her  at  the  same  time — and  this  is 
not  contradicting  what  I've  said  in  the  above 
paragraph  about  Cleopatra.  I  never  once  said 
that  I  had  enjoyed  feeling  like  her — you  simply 
took  it  for  granted  that  I  had! 

"Aren't  you  going  to  dance — with  some  one?" 
I  asked,  turning  back  quickly,  as  Guil  ford's  arm 
slipped  about  me  and  we  started  away  into  a 
heartless,  senseless  motion.  Maitland  Tait  stood 
looking  at  me  for  an  instant  without  answering, 
then  swept  his  eyes  down  the  room  to  where 
Mrs.  Charles  Sefton — a  sister-in-law  of  the 
house  of  Kendall — and  her  daughter  Anabel  were 
standing.  Mrs.  Sefton  was  a  pillar  of  society, 
and,  if  one  must  use  architectural  similes,  Anabel 
was  a  block.  They  caught  him  and  made  a  sand- 
wich of  him  on  the  spot.  I  whirled  away  with 
Guilford. 


TWO  MEN  AND  A  MAID          179 

At  the  end  of  the  dance  I  found  myself  at  the 
far  end  of  the  ballroom,  close  to  a  door  that 
opened  into  a  small  conservatory.  The  dim  green 
within  looked  so  calm  and  uncomplicated  beside 
the  glare  of  light  which  surrounded  me  that  I 
turned  toward  it — thirstily. 

"I'm  going  in  here  to  rest  a  minute,  Guilford," 
I  explained,  setting  him  free  with  a  little  push 
toward  a  group  of  girls  he  knew.  "You  run 
along  and  dance  with  some  of  them.  Men  aren't 
any  too  plentiful  to-night." 

"No-o — I'll  go  with  you,"  he  objected  lazily, 
slipping  his  cigarette  case  from  his  pocket. 
"You're  too  darned  pretty  to-night  to  stay  long 
in  a  conservatory  alone." 

"But  I'll  not  be  alone,"  I  replied,  with  a  return 
of  that  frightful  recklessness  which  tempted  me 
to  throw  myself  on  his  mercy  and  say :  "I'm  in 
love  with  this  Englishman — madly  in  love!  I 
have  never  been  in  love  before — and  I  hope  I 
shall  never  be  again  if  it  always  feels  like  this!" 
Instead  of  saying  this,  however,  I  said,  with  a 


i8o  AMAZING  GRACE 

smile :  "Don't  think  for  a  moment  that  I  shall 
be  alone.  Grandfather  and  Uncle  Lancelot  will 
be  with  me." 

He  looked  disgusted. 

"What's  going  on  in  your  conscience  now?" 
he  asked,  with  slightly  primped  lips. 

"Something — that  I'll  tell  you  about  later." 

"But  has  it  got  to  be  threshed  out  to-night?" 
he  demanded  irritably.  "I  had  hoped  that  we 
might  spend  this  one  evening  acting  like  human 
beings.'* 

"Still,  it  seems  that  we  can't,"  I  answered,  with 
a  foolish  attempt  to  sound  inconsequential. 
"Please  let  me  sit  down  in  here  by  myself  for  a 
little  while,  Guilford." 

He  turned  on  his  heel,  with  an  unflattering 
abruptness,  and  left  me.  I  entered  the  damp, 
earthy-smelling  room,  where  wicker  tables  held 
giant  ferns,  and  a  fountain  drizzling  sleepily  in 
the  center  of  the  apartment,  broke  off  the  view 
of  a  green  cane  bench  just  beyond;  I  made  for 
this  settee  and  sank  down  dejectedly. 


TWO  MEN  AND  A  MAID          181 

How  long  I  sat  there  I  could  not  tell — one 
never  can,  if  you've  noticed — but  after  a  little 
while  I  heard  the  next  dance  start,  and  then 
three  people,  still  in  the  position  of  a  sandwich, 
entered. 

"How  warm  it  is  to-night!"  I  heard  Maitland 
Tait's  voice  suddenly  proclaim,  in  a  fretful  tone, 
as  if  the  women  with  him  were  responsible  for 
the  disagreeable  fact.  But  he  drew  up  a  chair, 
rather  meekly,  and  subsided  into  it.  "This  is  the 
first  really  warm  night  we've  had  this  summer." 

"It  seems  like  the  irony  of  fate,  doesn't  it?" 
Anabel  Sefton  asked  with  a  nervous  little  giggle. 
There  are  some  girls  who  can  never  talk  to  a  man 
five  minutes  without  bringing  fate's  name  into 
the  conversation. 

"We  had  almost  no  dances  during  April  and 
May,  when  one  really  needed  violence  of  some 
sort  to  keep  warm,"  her  mother  hastened  to  ex- 
plain. "And  now,  at  this  last  dance  of  the  sea- 
son, it  is  actually  hot." 

"The  last  big  dance,  mother." 


182  AMAZING  GRACE 

"Of  course!"  Mrs.  Sefton  leaned  toward  the 
other  two  chairs  confidentially.  "A  crush  like 
this  is  too  big,"  she  declared. 

"Oh,  but  I  like  the  big  affairs,"  Anabel  pouted. 
"You  never  know  then  who  you're  going  to  run 
across!  Just  think  of  the  unfamiliar  faces  here 
to-night!  I  happened  up  on  Gayle  Cargill  and 
Doctor  Macdonald  down  in  the  drawing-room  a 
while  ago — where  they'd  hidden  to  sing  Italian, 
sotto  voce!" 

"Then  Dan  Hunter  is  here — for  a  wonder," 
her  mother  agreed,  as  if  a  recital  of  Oldburgh's 
submerged  tenth  were  quite  the  most  interesting 
thing  she  could  think  up  for  a  foreigner's  delecta- 
tion, "and  Grace  Christie!  Have  you  met  Miss 
Christie,  Mr.  Tait?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied. 

"She's  gone  in  for  newspaper  work,"  Anabel 
elucidated. 

"Just  a  pose,"  her  mother  hastily  added.  "She 
really  belongs  to  one  of  our  best  families,  and  is 
engaged  to  Guilford  Blake." 


TWO  MEN  AND  A  MAID          183 

"But  she  won't  marry  him,"  Anabel  said 
virtuously.  "I'm  sure  /  can't  understand  such 
a  nature.  They've  been  engaged  all  their  lives 
and " 

"She  doesn't  deserve  anything  better  than  to 
lose  him,"  her  mother  broke  in.  "If  he  should 
chance  to  look  in  some  other  direction  for  a  while 
she'd  change  her  tactics,  no  doubt." 

"Oh — no  doubt,"  echoed  a  deep  male  voice, 
the  tones  as  cool  as  the  water-drops  plashing  into 
the  fountain  beside  him. 

"Anyway,  it's  her  kind — those  women  who 
would  be  sirens  if  the  mythological  age  hadn't 
passed — who  cause  so  much  trouble  in  the  world," 
Mrs.  Sefton  wound  up.  At  fifty-two  women  can 
look  upon  sirens  dispassionately. 

After  a  while  the  music  began  throbbing  again, 
and  a  college  boy  came  up  to  claim  Anabel.  The 
trio  melted  quietly  away.  I  rose  from  my  chair 
and  started  toward  the  door  when  I  saw  that 
Maitland  Tait  had  not  left  with  the  others.  He 
was  standing  motionless  beside  the  fountain. 


184  AMAZING  GRACE 

I  came  up  with  him  and  he  did  not  start.  Evi- 
dently he  had  known  all  the  while  that  I  was  in 
the  room. 

"Well?"  he  said,  with  a  certain  aloofness  that 
strangely  enough  gave  him  the  appearance  of  in- 
tense aristocracy.  "Well?'' 

"Well — "  I  echoed,  feebly,  but  before  I  could 
go  away  farther  he  had  drawn  himself  up  sharply. 

"I  was  coming  to  look  for  you — to  say  good- 
by,"  he  said. 

"Good-by?"  I  repeated  blankly.  "You  mean 
good  night,  don't  you  ?" 

"No." 

Our  eyes  met  squarely  then,  and  mine  dropped. 
They  had  hit  against  steel. 

"And  this  is — good-by?"  I  plead,  while  I  felt 
that  wild  wind  and  waves  were  beating  against 
my  body  and  that  the  skies  were  falling. 

"Of  course!"  he  answered  harshly.  "What 
else  could  it  be  ?" 

I  think  that  we  must  have  stood  there  in  silence 
for  a  minute  or  more,  then,  without  speaking 


TWO  MEN  AND  A  MAID          185 

another  word,  or  even  looking  at  me  squarely  in 
the  face  again,  he  moved  deliberately  away  and  I 
lost  all  trace  of  him  in  the  crowd. 


CHAPTER  XII 

AN  ASSIGNMENT 

THE  next  afternoon  the  city  editor  again  said 
"Damn"  and  blushed. 

"You  needn't  blush,"  I  said  to  him  wearily. 

He  glanced  around  in  surprise. 

"No?" 

"No!  I  quite  agree  with  you!" 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  but  I  made  no 
apology  for  my  tardiness,  as  I  hung  my  hat  on  its 
nail  and  started  toward  my  desk. 

"Oh,  you  feel  like  saying  it  yourself,  eh?"  he 
questioned. 

"I  do." 

He  turned  then  and  looked  at  me  squarely.  It 
was  very  seldom  that  he  did  such  a  thing,  and  as 
186 


AN  ASSIGNMENT  187 

some  time  had  elapsed  since  his  last  look  he  was 
likely  able  to  detect  a  subtle  change  in  my  face. 

"What's  wrong  with  you?"  he  asked  gruffly. 
"If  you  had  my  job,  now,  there'd  be  something 
to  worry  over !  What's  the  matter  ?" 

"Nothing." 

He  turned  away,  precipitately. 

"Gee!  Let  me  get  out  of  here!  That's  what 
women  always  say  when  they're  getting  ready  to 
cry." 

"But  I'm  not  going  to  cry!"  I  assured  him,  as 
he  dashed  through  the  doorway  and  I  turned  with 
some  relief  to  my  desk,  for  talking  was  some- 
what of  an  effort. 

I  raised  the  top,  whistling  softly — one  can 
nearly  always  manage  a  little  sizzling  whistle — 
then  shrank  back  in  terror  from  what  I  saw  there. 
— Such  chaos  as  must  have  been  scattered  about 
before  sunrise  on  the  morning  of  the  First  Day! 
Was  it  possible  that  I  had  been  excited  yesterday 
to  the  point  of  leaving  the  mucilage  bottle  un- 
stopped ? 


i88  AMAZING  GRACE 

I  set  to  work,  however,  with  a  little  sickening 
sense  of  shame,  to  making  right  the  ravages  that 
had  taken  place. 

"A  woman  may  fashion  her  balloon  of  antici- 
pation out  of  silver  tissue — but  her  parachute  is 
always  made  of  sack-cloth!"  I  groaned. 

My  desk  was  really  in  the  wildest  disorder. 
The  tin  top  of  the  mucilage  bottle  had  disappear- 
ed, the  bottle  had  been  overturned,  its  contents 
had  been  lavished  upon  the  devoted  head  of  a 
militant  suffragette,  and  she  was  pinioned  tightly 
to  my  blotting-pad. 

"The  elevator  to  Success  is  not  running — take 
the  stairs,"  grinned  a  framed  motto  above  the 
desk. 

"You  take  a — back  seat!"  I  said,  jumping  up 
and  turning  the  thing  to  the  wall.  "What  do  I 
care  about  success,  if  it's  the  sort  of  thing  con- 
nected with  typewriters,  offices,  copy  paper  and  a 
pot  of  paste?  I'm — I'm  des-qua-mat-ing !" 

Never  before  in  my  experience  ha4  the  life  of 


AN  ASSIGNMENT  189 

journalistic  devotion  looked  quite  so  black  as  the 
ink  that  accompanies  it. 

"Mottoes  about  success  ought  to  belong  to  men, 
anyhow!"  I  said  again,  looking  up  furiously  at 
the  drab  back  of  the  frame.  "I'm  not  a  man, 
nor  cut  out  for  man's  work.  I'm  just  a  woman, 
and  my  head  aches!" 

I  looked  again  at  the  militant  suffragette,  for  it 
was  a  tragedy  to  me.  I  had  spent  a  week  of  time 
and  five  honest  dollars  in  the  effort  to  get  that 
photograph  from  a  New  York  studio.  She  wasn't 
any  common  suffragette,  but  a  strict  head-liner. 

"I'm  not  even  a  woman — I'm  a  child  to  let  a 
little  thing  like  this  upset  me,"  I  was  deciding  a 
while  later,  when  the  door  of  the  room  opened 
again  and  some  one  entered. 

"You're  a  big  baby!"  the  city  editor  pro- 
nounced disgustedly,  coming  up  to  my  desk  and 
lowering  his  voice.  "I  knew  you  were  going  to 
cry." 

"I — I  think  I  may  be  coming  down  with  ty- 


AMAZING  GRACE 

phoid,"  I  said  coldly,  to  keep  from  encouraging 
him  in  conversation.  "And  I've  got  a  terrible  lot 
of  work  to  do  before  it  gets  quite  dark.  Really, 
an  awful  lot." 

He  dropped  back  a  few  paces,  then  circled 
nearer  once  more. 

"Got  anything — special?"  he  asked  aimlessly. 

His  manner  was  so  entirely  inconsequential 
that  I  knew  he  had  the  most  important  thing  for 
a  month  up  his  sleeve. 

"Do  you  call  this — mess  anything  special?"  I 
asked.  "I've  got  to  do  a  general  house-cleaning, 
and  I  wish  I  had  a  vacuum  machine  that  would 
suck  the  whole  business  up  into  its  mouth,  swal- 
low it  and  digest  it — so  I'd  never  see  a  scrap  of  it 
again." 

Have  I  said  before  that  he  was  a  middle-aged 
man,  named  Hudson,  and  had  scant  red  hair  ?  It 
doesn't  make  any  special  difference  about  his 
looks,  since  I  hadn't  taken  any  rash  vow  to  marry 
the  first  unfortunate  man  who  crossed  my  path, 
but  he  looked  so  ludicrously  insignificant  and  un- 


AN  ASSIGNMENT  191 

like  an  instrument  of  fate  as  he  stood  there,  try- 
ing to  break  the  news  to  me  by  degrees. 

"Hate  your  ordinary  work  this  afternoon  ?"  he 
asked. 

"I  hate  everything." 

"Then,  how  would  you  like  to  change  off  a 
little?" 

"I'd  like  to  change  off  from  breathing — if  that 
would  accommodate  you  any,"  I  replied. 

He  made  a  "tut-tut"  admonition  with  the  tip  of 
his  tongue. 

"You  might  not  find  blowing  red-hot  coals  any 
pleasanter,"  he  warned,  "and  angry  little  girls  like 
you  can't  hope  to  go  to  heaven  when  they  die!" 

I  rose,  with  a  great  effort  after  professional 
dignity. 

"Mr.  Hudson,  evidently  you  have  an  assign- 
ment for  me,"  I  said.  "Will  you  be  so  good  as  to 
let  me  know  what  it  is  ?" 

But  even  then  he  looked  for  a  full  thirty  sec- 
onds into  the  luscious  doors  of  a  fruit  stand  across 
the  street. 


192  AMAZING  GRACE 

"I  want  you  to  get — that  Consolidated  Traction 
Company  story  for  me,"  he  then  declared. 

I  jumped  back  as  I  had  never  jumped  but  once 
in  my  life  before — the  time  when  Aunt  Patricia 
announced  that  she  was  going  to  leave  James 
Christie's  love-letters  to  me. 

"You  were  at  that  dance  last  night!"  I  cried 
out  accusingly,  then  realizing  the  absurdity  of  this 
I  began  stammering.  "I  mean,  that  I'm  a  special 
feature  writer !"  I  kept  on  before  he  had  had  time 
to  send  me  more  than  a  demon's  grin  of  compre- 
hension. 

"You  are  and  this  story  is  devilish  special,"  he 
returned.  "I  want  you  to  get  it." 

His  tone,  which  all  of  a  sudden  was  the  boiled- 
down  essence  of  business,  sent  me  in  a  tremor 
over  toward  the  nail  where  my  hat  hung.  It  was 
getting  dark  and  I  remembered  then  that  I  had 
heard  fragments  of  telephonic  conversation  earlier 
in  the  evening  anent  "catching  him  there  about 
seven." 

"Well?" 


AN  ASSIGNMENT  193 

He  looked  at  me — with  almost  a  human  ex- 
pression. 

"I  wasn't  at  the  ball  last  night — but  grape- 
vines have  been  rustling,  I  admit,"  he  said.  "I 
hate  like  the  very  devil  to  ask  you  to  do  it,  if  you 
want  to  know  the  truth,  but  there's  no  other  way 
out.  I  hope  you  believe  me." 

"A  city  editor  doesn't  have  to  be  believed,  but 
has  to  be  obeyed,"  I  responded,  rising  again  from 
my  chair  where  I  had  dropped  to  lock  my  desk. 
"Now,  what  is  it  I  must  do  ?" 

"Well,  I  have  a  hunch  that  you  will  succeed 
where  demons  and  Bolton  and  Reade  have 
failed,"  he  said.  "And  the  foolish  way  the  fel- 
low acts  makes  it  necessary  for  us  to  use  all  haste 
and  strategy!" 

"The  fellow?" 

"Maitland  Tait.  A  day  or  two  ago  it  was  un- 
derstood that  he  might  remain  in  this  town  for 
several  days  longer — then  to-day  comes  the  news 
that  he's  straining  every  nerve  to  get  away  to- 
morrow !" 


194  AMAZING  GRACE 

"Oh,  to-morrow !" 

"It  appears  that  all  the  smoke  in  Pittsburgh  is 
curling  up  into  question  marks  to  find  out  when 
he's  coming  back — " 

"He's  so  important?" 

"Exactly!  But  to-night  he's  going  to  hold  a 
final  conference  at  Loomis,  and  you  can  catch  him 
before  time  for  this  if  you'll  go  right  on  now." 

"Very  well,"  I  answered,  feeling  myself  in  pro- 
found hypnosis. 

"And,  say!  You'll  have  to  hurry,"  he  said, 
pressing  the  advantage  my  quiet  demeanor  of- 
fered. "Here"!  Take  this  hunk  p*  copy  paper 
and  hike!" 

I  accepted  the  proffered  paper,  still  hypnotized, 
then  when  I  had  reached  the  door  I  stopped. 

"Understand,  Mr.  Hudson,  I'm  doing  this  be- 
cause you  have  assigned  it  to  me!"  I  said  with  a 
cutting  severity.  "Please  let  that  be  perfectly 
plain!  I  shouldn't  go  a  step  toward  Loomis — 
not  even  if  it  were  a  matter  of  life  and  death — if 
it  were  not  a  matter  of  urgent  business !" 


AN  ASSIGNMENT  195 

He  looked  at  me  blankly  for  a  moment,  then 
grinned.  Afterward  I  realized  that  he  knew  this 
declaration  was  being  made  to  my  own  inner  con- 
sciousness, and  not  to  him. 

"Don't  ask  him  for  a  photograph — for  God's 
sake !"  he  called  after  me,  from  the  head  of  the 
steps.  "Remember — you're  going  out  there  on 
the  Herald's  account  and  the  Herald  doesn't  need 
his  picture,  because  it  happens  that  we've  already 
got  a  dandy  one  of  him !" 

I  turned  back  fiercely. 

"I  hadn't  dreamed  of  asking  him  for  his  photo- 
graph!" I  fired.  "I  hope  I  have  some  vestige  of 
reasoning  power  left!" 

At  the  corner  a  car  to  Loomis  was  passing,  and 
once  inside  I  inspected  every  passenger  in  the 
deadly  fear  of  seeing  some  one  whom  I  knew. 
There  was  no  one  there,  however,  who  could  later 
be  placed  on  the  witness-stand  against  me,  so  I 
sat  down  and  watched  the  town  outside  speeding 
by — first  the  busy  up-town  portion,  then  the  heavy 
wholesale  district,  with  its  barrels  tumbling  out 


196  AMAZING  GRACE 

of  wagon  ends  and  its  mingled  odor  of  fruit, 
vinegar  and  molasses,  combined  with  soap  and 
tanned  hides.  After  this  the  river  was  crossed, 
we  sped  through  a  suburban  settlement,  out  into 
the  open  country,  then  nearer  and  nearer  and 
nearer. 

All  the  time  I  sat  like  one  paralyzed.  I  hated 
intensely  the  thought  of  going  out  there,  but  the 
very  speed  of  the  car  seemed  to  furnish  excuse 
enough  for  me  not  to  get  off !  I  didn't  have  will 
power  enough  to  push  the  bell,  so  when  the  greasy 
terminal  of  the  line  was  reached  I  rose  quietly 
and  left  the  car  along  with  a  number  of  men  in 
overalls  and  a  bevy  of  tired  dejected-looking 
women. 

"They  ought  to  call  it  'Gloom-is,'  "  I  muttered, 
as  I  alighted  at  the  little  wooden  station,  where 
one  small,  yellow  incandescent  light  showed  you 
just  how  dark  and  desolate  the  place  was.  "And 
these  people  live  here! — I'll  never  say  a  word 
against  West  Clydemont  Place  again  as  long  as 
Hive!" 


AN  ASSIGNMENT  197 

Without  seeming  to  notice  the  gloom,  the  peo- 
ple who  had  come  out  on  the  car  with  me  dis- 
persed in  different  directions,  two  or  three  of  the 
men  making  first  for  the  shadow  of  a  big  brick 
building  which  stood  towering  blackly  a  little  dis- 
tance up  from  the  car  tracks.  I  followed  after 
them,  then  stopped  before  a  lighted  door  at  this 
building  while  they  disappeared  into  a  giant 
round-house  farther  back.  The  whir  of  machin- 
ery was  steady  and  monotonous,  and  it  served  to 
drown  out  the  noise  my  heart  was  making,  for  I 
was  legitimately  frightened,  even  in  my  reportor- 
ial  capacity,  as  well  as  being  embarrassed  and 
ashamed,  independent  of  the  Herald.  It  was  a 
most  unpleasant  moment. 

"This  must  be  the  office !" 

The  big  door  was  slightly  ajar,  so  I  entered, 
rapping  with  unsteady  knuckles  a  moment  later 
against  the  forbidding  panels  of  another  door 
marked  "Private." 

"Well?" 

"Well"  is  only  a  tolerant  word  at  best — never 


198  AMAZING  GRACE 

encouraging — and  now  it  sounded  very  much  like 
"Go  to  the  devil!" 

"I  don't  give  a  rap  if  he  is  the  Vice-President 
and  General  Manager  of  the  Consolidated  Trac- 
tion Company,"  I  muttered,  the  capital  letters  of 
his  position  and  big  corporation,  however,  pelting 
like  giant  hailstones  against  my  courage.  "I'm 
Special  Feature  Writer  for  The  Oldburgh  Her- 
ald!" 

"If  you've  got  any  business  with  me  open  that 
door  and  come  in !"  was  the  further  invitation  I 
received.  "If  you  haven't,  go  on  off !" 

The  invitation  wasn't  exactly  pressing  in  its 
tone,  but  I  managed  to  nerve  myself  up  to  accept- 
ing it. 

"But  I  have  got  some — business  with  you!"  I 
gasped,  as  I  opened  the  door. 

Mr.  Tait  turned  around  from  his  desk — a 
worse-looking  desk  by  far  than  the  one  I  had  left 
at  the  Herald  office. 

"Good  lord — that  is,  I  mean  to  say,  dear  me !" 


"  This  must  be  the  office  " 


AN  ASSIGNMENT  199 

he  muttered,  as  he  wheeled  and  saw  me.  "Miss 
Christie!" 

"Are  you  so  surprised — then?" 

"Surprised?  Of  course,  a  little,  but — no-o,  not 
so  much  either,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it !" 

The  room  was  bare  and  barn-like,  with  a 
couple  of  shining  desks,  and  half  a  dozen  chairs. 
A  calendar,  showing  a  red-gowned  lady,  who  m 
turn  was  showing  her  knees,  hung  against  the  op- 
posite wall.  Mr.  Tait  drew  up  one  of  the  chairs. 

"Thank  you — though  I  haven't  a  minute  to 
stay!" 

I  stammered  a  little,  then  sat  down  and  scram- 
bled about  in  my  bag  for  a  small  fan  I  always 
carried. 

"A  minute?" 

"Not  long,  really — for  it's  getting  late,  you 
see!" 

My  fingers  were  twitching  nervously  with  the 
fan,  trying  to  stuff  it  back  into  the  bag  and  hide 
that  miserable  copy  paper  which  had  sprung  out 


200  AMAZING  GRACE 

of  its  lair  like  a  "jack-in-the-box"  at  the  opening 
of  the  clasp. 

He  smiled — so  silently  and  persistently  that  I 
was  constrained  to  look  up  and  catch  it.  He  had 
seemed  not  to  observe  the  copy  paper. 

"If  you're  in  such  a  hurry  your  'business'  must 
be  urgent,"  he  said,  and  his  tone  was  full  of  satire. 

"It  is,  but—" 

I  looked  at  him  again,  then  hesitated,  my  voice 
breaking  suddenly.  Somehow,  I  felt  that  I  was 
a  thousand  miles  away  from  that  magic  spot  on 
the  Nile  where  the  evening  before  had  placed  me. 
He  looked  so  different! 

"You  needn't  rub  it  in  on  me !"  I  flashed  back 
at  him. 

His  chair  was  tilted  slightly  against  the  desk, 
and  he  sat  there  observing  me  impersonally  as  if 
I  were  a  wasp  pinned  on  a  cardboard.  He  was 
looking  aloof  and  keenly  aristocratic — as  he  was 
at  the  entrance  of  the  conservatory  the  evening 
before. 

"Rub  it  in  on  you  ?" 


AN  ASSIGNMENT  201 

"I  mean  that  I  didn't  want  to  come  out  here 
to-night !" 

My  face  was  growing  hot,  and  try  as  I  would 
to  keep  my  eyes  dry  and  professional-looking 
something  sprang  up  and  glittered  so  bewilder- 
ingly  that  as  I  turned  away  toward  the  lady  on 
the  calendar,  she  looked  like  a  dozen  ladies — all 
of  them  doing  the  hesitation  waltz. 

He  straightened  up  in  his  chair,  relieving  that 
impertinent  tilt. 

"Oh, — you  didn't  want  to  come?" 

"Of  course  not!" 

I  blinked  decisively — and  the  red-gowned  one 
faded  back  to  her  normal  number,  but  my  eyelids 
were  heavy  and  wet  still. 

"But— but— " 

"Please  don't  think  that  I  came  out  here  to- 
night because  I  wanted  to  see  you,  Mr.  Tait!"  I 
was  starting  to  explain,  when  he  interrupted  me, 
the  satire  quite  gone. 

"But,  after  all,  what  else  was  there  to  do?"  he 
asked,  with  surprising  gentleness. 


202  AMAZING  GRACE 

"What  else?" 

"Yes.  Certainly  it  was  your  next  move, — 
Grace!" 

My  heart  out-did  the  machinery  in  the  round- 
house in  the  way  of  making  a  hubbub  at  that  in- 
stant, but  he  seemed  not  to  hear. 

"I  mean  to  say — I — I  expected  to  hear  from 
you  in  some  manner  to-day.  That  is,  I  hoped  to 
hear." 

I  gave  a  hysterical  laugh. 

"But  you  didn't  expect  me  to  board  a  trolley- 
car  and  run  you  down  after  night  in  your  own 
den — surely?"  I  demanded. 

He  half  rose  from  his  chair,  hushing  my  mock- 
ing word  with  a  gesture.  His  manner  was  chiv- 
alrously protecting. 

"You  shan't  talk  that  way  about  yourself !"  he 
said  insistently.  "Whatever  you  have  chosen  to 
do  is — is — all  right !" 

I  felt  bewildered. 

"I  just  wanted  to  let  you  know — "  I  began, 


AN  ASSIGNMENT  203 

when  he  stopped  me  again,  this  time  with  an  air 
of  finality. 

"Please  don't  waste  this  dear  little  hour  in  ex- 
plaining!" he  begged.  "I  want  you  to  know — to 
feel  absolutely  that  nothing  you  might  ever  do 
could  be  misunderstood  by  me !  I  feel  now  that  I 
know  you — your  impulsive,  headstrong  ways — " 

"  'Heart-strong,'  Aunt  Patricia  used  to  say," 
I  modified  softly. 

He  nodded. 

"Of  course — 'heart-strong!'  I  understand  you! 
I  understand  why  you  refrained  from  telling  me 
of  your  engagement,  even." 

My  eyes  dropped. 

"I  didn't— know  then." 

"You  didn't  know  how  I  felt — what  an  un- 
happy complication  you  were  stirring  up." 

There  was  a  tense  little  silence,  then  he  spoke 
again. 

"If  you  are  not  in  love  with  your  fiance — never 
have  been  in  love  with  him — why  do  you  main- 


204  AMAZING  GRACE 

tain  the  relationship?"  he  asked,  in  as  careful  and 
businesslike  a  manner  as  if  he  were  inquiring  the 
price  of  pig-iron. 

"Because — because  that's  the  way  we  do  things 
down  here  in  this  state,"  I  answered.  "What 
we  never  have  done  before,  we  have  a  hard  time 
starting — and  mother  idolizes  him!" 

He  smiled — his  own  particular  brand  of  smile 
— for  the  first  time. 

"Little — goose!"  he  said. 

"Then — last  night,  when  you  pretended  that 
you  were  going  straight  away — " 

"I  am  going  away,"  he  broke  in  with  consid- 
erable dignity.  "That  is,  I  have  my  plans  laid 
that  way  now." 

"Plans?" 

"Yes.  It's  true  that  my  resolution  to  get  away 
from  this  town  was  born  rather  precipitately  last 
night;  however,  I  have  been  able  to  make  my 
plans  coincide." 

"Oh!"  I  began  with  a  foolish  little  quiver  in 
my  voice,  then  collected  myself.  "I'm  glad  that 


AN  ASSIGNMENT  205 

you  could  arrange  your  affairs  so  satisfactorily." 

He  looked  across  at  me,  his  mouth  grim. 

"Why  should  I  stay?"  he  demanded.  "To- 
night will  see  the  finishing  up  of  the  business 
which  brought  me  to  Oldburgh !" 

Then,  and  not  until  then,  I'm  afraid,  did  I 
really  recall  the  face  of  my  city  editor — and  the 
fact  that  he  had  sent  me  out  to  obtain  an  inter- 
view, not  a  proposal. 

"Your  business  with  the  Macdermott  Realty 
Company  ?"  I  inquired. 

Maitland  Tait  looked  at  me  with  an  amused 
smile. 

"What  do  you  know  about  that  ?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing  except  what  all  the  world  knows !" 

I  managed  to  inject  some  hurt  feeling  into  my 
voice,  as  if  I  had  a  right  to  know  more,  which  in 
truth  I  felt. 

"And  how  much  does  the  world  know  ?" 

"Merely  that  you've  either  planned  to  shut 
down  this  plant  here  and  move  the  whole  business 
to  Birmingham,  or  you've  bought  up  acres  and 


206  AMAZING  GRACE 

acres  more  of  Oldburgh's  suburbs  and  will  make 
this  spot  so  important  and  permanent  that  the 
company's  grandchildren  will  have  to  call  it 
home." 

"But  you — you  don't  know  which  I've  done, 
eh?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Then  shall  I  tell  you?    Are  you  interested?" 

"I'm  certainly  interested  in  knowing  whether 
or  not  you'll — ever  come  back  to  Oldburgh — but 
I  don't  want  you  to  tell  me  anything  you'd  rather 
I  shouldn't  know." 

"I  believe  I  want  to  tell  you,"  he  replied,  his 
face  softening  humorously.  "We  have  bought 
acres  and  acres  more  of  Oldburgh's  suburbs,  and 
we're  going  to  have  quite  a  little  city  out  here!" 

"There's  room  for  improvement,"  I  observed, 
looking  out  through  the  window  into  the  greasy 
darkness. 

"There  is  and  I'm  going  to  see  to  it  that  the 
improvement's  made!  There  will  be  model  cot- 
tages here  in  place  of  those  miserable  hovels  that 


AN  ASSIGNMENT  207 

I'm  glad  you  can't  see  from  here  to-night — and 
each  cottage  will  have  its  garden  spot — " 

"That's  good !"  I  approved.     "I  love  gardens." 

"Wait  until  you  see  some  English  ones  I  have 
seen,"  he  said  patriotically. 

"I  shall — then  pattern  my  own  by  them!  But 
— these  Loomis  plans?" 

"Model  cottages,  with  gardens — then  a  school- 
house,  with  well-kept  grounds — a  club-room  for 
men — " 

"And  a  sewing  circle  for  their  wives,"  I  added 
contemptuously. 

He  looked  taken  aback. 

"Don't  you  like  that?"  he  asked  anxiously. 
"Why  shouldn't  they  sew?" 

"But  why  should  they — just  because  they're 
women?"  I  asked  in  answer,  and  after  a  moment 
he  began  to  see  light. 

"Of  course  if  you  prefer  having  them  write 
novels,  model  in  clay  and  illumine  parchments 
we'll  add  those  departments,"  he  declared,  with  a 
generous  air.  "We're  determined  to  have  every- 


208  AMAZING  GRACE 

thing  that  an  altruistic  age  has  thrust  upon  the 
manufacturer  to  reduce  his  net  income." 

"And — occasionally — you'll  be  coming  back  to 
Oldburgh  to  see  that  the  gardens  grow  silver  bells 
and  cockle  shells  and  pretty  maids  all  in  a  row  ?" 
I  suggested,  but  after  a  momentary  smile  his  face 
sobered. 

"I  don't  know!  There  are  things — in  England 
— that  complicate  any  arrangements,  I  mean  busi- 
ness arrangements,  I  might  wish  to  make  just 
now." 

"And  Loomis  will  have  to  get  along  without 
you?" 

I  had  put  the  question  idly,  with  no  ulterior 
motive  in  the  world,  but  he  leaned  forward  until 
the  arm  of  his  revolving  chair  scraped  against  my 
chair. 

"Loomis  can  get  along  without  me,"  he  said, 
in  a  low  tone,  "and  therefore  must — but  if  I 
should  find  that  I  am  needed — wanted  here  in 
Oldburgh—" 

The  shriek  of  the  city-bound  trolley-car  broke 


AN  ASSIGNMENT  209 

in  at  that  instant  upon  the  quiet  of  the  room,  in- 
terrupting his  slow  tense  words ;  and  I  sprang  up 
and  crossed  to  the  window,  for  I  felt  suddenly  a 
wild  distaste  to  having  Maitland  Tait  say  import- 
ant things  to  me  then  and  there!  Something  in 
me  demanded  the  most  beautiful  setting  the  world 
could  afford  for  what  he  was  going  to  say ! 

"I  ought — I  ought  to  catch  that  car!" 

He  followed  me,  his  face  gravely  wondering. 

"My  motor  is  here.  I'll  take  you  back  to 
town,"  he  said,  looking  over  my  shoulder  into  the 
noisy,  dimly-lit  scene. 

"But — weren't  you  going  to  be  busy  out  here 
this  evening?" 

"Yes — later.  I'll  go  with  you,  then  return  to  a 
meeting  I  have  here." 

He  rang  the  bell  beside  his  desk  and  a  moment 
later  the  face  of  Collins  appeared  in  the  doorway. 
Outside  the  limousine  was  breathing  softly. 

I  don't  remember  what  we  talked  about  going 
in  to  town,  or  whether  we  talked  at  all  or  not ;  but 
when  the  machine  slowed  up  at  the  Herald  build- 


210  AMAZING  GRACE 

ing  and  Maitland  Tait  helped  me  out,  there  was 
the  same  light  shining  from  his  eyes  that  shone 
there  the  night  before — the  light  that  made  the 
glint  of  the  silver  oars  on  Cleopatra's  Nile  barge 
turn  pale — and  the  radiance  half  blinded  me. 

"Grace,  you  don't  want  me  to  say  anything  to- 
night— I  can  see  that,"  he  said.  "And  you  are 
right — if  you  are  still  bound  to  that  other  man! 
I  can  say  nothing  until  I  know  you  are  free — 

He  whispered  the  words,  our  hands  meeting 
warmly. 

"But,  if  you  are  going  away ! — You'll  come  and 
say  good-by?" 

"If  it's  to  say  good-by  there'll  be  no  use  com- 
ing," he  answered.  "You  know  how  I  feel !" 

"But  we  must  say  good-by !"  I  plead. 

He  leaned  forward  then,  as  he  made  a  motion 
to  step  back  into  the  car.  His  eyes  were  passion- 
ate. 

"What  matters  where  good-by  is  said — if  we 
can  do  nothing  but  say  it?"  he  demanded.  "It's 
your  next  move,  Grace." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

JILTED ! 

WHEN  a  tempest  in  a  teapot  goes  out  at  the 
spout  it  is  always  disappointing  to  specta- 
tors! 

One  naturally  expects  the  vessel  to  burst — or 
the  lid  to  fly  off,  at  least — and  when  neither  takes 
place  one  experiences  a  little  collapsed  feeling  of 
disappointment. 

The  barest  thought  of  the  pain  I  was  going  to 
inflict  upon  Guilford  Blake  when  I  broke  my  life- 
long engagement  to  him  had  been  sending  shivers 
up  and  down  my  backbone  ever  since  four  o'clock 
on  the  afternoon  of  Mrs.  Hiram  Walker's  recep- 
tion—  then,  when  I  turned  away  from  Maitland 
Tait's  motor-car  the  night  I  went  to  Loomis  on 
211 


212  AMAZING  GRACE 

urgent  business,  and  came  face  to  face  with  my 
betrothed  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the  office 
door  waiting  for  me — the  unexpected  happened! 

Mr.  Blake  broke  his  engagement  with  me ! 

"Grace,  you  amaze  me !"  he  said. 

He  said  it  so  quietly,  with  so  icy  an  air  of  dis- 
approval that  I  looked  up  quickly  to  see  what  the 
trouble  was.  Then  I  observed  that  he  had  told 
the  truth.  I  hadn't  crushed,  wounded,  nor  anni- 
hilated him.  I  had  simply  amazed  him. 

"Oh,  Guilford !    I  didn't  know  you  were  here !" 

"I  suppose  not." 

"But,  how  does  it  happen — ?" 

He  motioned  me  to  silence. 

"Have  the  goodness  to  let  me  ask  the  ques- 
tions," he  suggested. 

"Oh,  certainly !" 

"Will  you,  first  of  all,  tell  me  what  this  means?" 
was  the  opening  query,  but  before  I  could  reply 
he  went  on:  "Not  that  7  have  any  right  to  pry 
into  your  affairs,  understand !" 

"Guilford!" 


JILTED!  213 

"It's  true!  My  right  to  question  you  has 
ceased  to  exist !" 

"You  mean  that  you  have  washed  your  hands 
of  me?"  I  gasped.  After  all,  it  was  most  unusual 
for  Guilford  and  me  to  be  talking  to  each  other 
like  this.  I  was  bewildered  by  the  novelty  of  it. 

He  caught  the  sound  of  the  gasp  and  inter- 
preted it  as  a  plea  for  quarter.  It  settled  him  in 
his  determination. 

"I  must,"  he  declared. 

"By  all  means — if  that's  the  way  you  feel 
about  it,"  I  said  courteously,  as  if  granting  a  re- 
quest. 

He  looked  down  at  me,  in  a  manner  that  said : 
"It  hurts  me  more  than  it  does  you,  my  child." 

"I've  endured — things  from  you  before  this, 
Grace,"  he  reminded  me,  "But  to-night — why, 
this  out-Herods-Herod !" 

Now,  if  he  had  looked  hurt — cruelly  wounded 
or  deeply  shocked — I'd  have  been  penitent  enough 
to  behave  decently  to  him.  But  he  didn't.  He 
was  simply  angry.  He  looked  like  the  giant  when 


214  AMAZING  GRACE 

he  was  searching  around  for  Jack  and  saying: 
"Fee!  Faw!  Fum!  I  smell  the  blood  of  an  Eng- 
lishman!" 

"But  what  have  I  done?"  I  demanded  indig- 
nantly. "Mayn't  a  man  come  to  see  me,  and — " 

"Certainly  he  may!" 

"And  mayn't  I—" 

"And  you  may  go  to  see  him,  too — if  you  like !" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean — I  mean,"  he  answered,  stammering 
a  little  with  wrath,  "of  course  you  may  do  such 
things — Grace  Christie  may — but  my  future  wife 
may  not." 

For  a  moment  I  had  a  blinded  angry  paralysis 
descend  upon  me.  I  had  a  great  desire  to  do 
something  to  relieve  the  situation,  but  I  didn't 
know  what  to  do — rather  as  you  feel  sometimes 
at  the  breakfast  table  when  your  morning  grape- 
fruit hits  you  squarely  in  the  eye. 

"Suppose  you  try  to  calm  yourself  a  little  and 
tell  me  just  what  the  trouble  is,"  I  said,  struggling 
after  calmness  for  my  own  individual  use. 


JILTED!  215 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  mopped  his  brow. 

"Your  mother  suspected  last  night  that  some- 
thing had  gone  wrong  with  you  at  that  dance," 
he  began  explaining,  the  flash  of  the  street  light 
at  the  corner  showing  that  he  had  gone  quite  pale. 

"Well?" 

"She  said  that  you  came  in  looking  wild-eyed 
and  desperate." 

"I  am  not  willing  to  admit  that,"  I  said  with 
dignity. 

"And,  then  she  knew  you  didn't  sleep!"  he 
kept  on.  "All  day  she  has  been  feeling  that  some- 
thing was  amiss  with  you." 

"I  see!  And  when  I  didn't  show  up  to-night 
at  dinner — " 

"She  called  the  office — naturally." 

"Naturally!"  I  encouraged. 

"And  the  fool  who  answered  the  telephone 
consoled  her  by  telling  her  that  you  had — gone — 
out — to — Loomis!" 

He  paused  dramatically,  but  I  failed  to  applaud. 

"Well,  what  next  ?"  I  inquired  casually. 


2i6  AMAZING  GRACE 

He  drew  back. 

"Then  you  don't  deny  it?" 

I  gave  a  little  laugh. 

"Why  should  I  attempt  to  deny  it?"  I  asked. 
"Haven't  you  just  caught  me  in  the  act  of  coming 
back  in  Mr.  Tait's  car  ?" 

"I  have!"  he  answered  in  gloating  triumph, 
"that  is,  I  have  caught  you  leaving  his  car — while 
he  made  love  to  you  at  the  curb !  This,  however, 
doesn't  necessarily  confirm  the  Loomis  rumor!" 

He  waited  for  me  to  explain  further,  but  I 
simply  bowed  my  head  in  acquiescence. 

"Yes,"  I  said  serenely.  "He  was  making  love 
to  me." 

"And  you  acknowledge  this,  too?" 

I  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"I  acknowledge  everything,  Guilford! — That 
you  and  I  have  been  the  victims  of  heredity,  first 
of  all,  and—" 

He  drew  back  stiffly. 

"Victims  ?    I  beg  pardon  ?" 


JILTED!  217 

"I  mean  in  this  engagement  of  ours — that  we 
had  nothing  to  do  with !" 

"But  I  assure  you  that  I  have  never  looked 
upon  myself  in  the  light  of  a  victim!"  he  said 
proudly.  "And — although  I  know  that  it  will  not 
interest  you  especially — I  wish  to  add  that  I  have 
never  given  a  serious  thought  to  any  other  woman 
in  my  life." 

"Yet  you  have  never  been  in  love  with  me !"  I 
challenged. 

He  hesitated. 

"I  have  always  felt  very  close  to  you,"  he  en- 
deavored to  explain.  "We  have  so  many  things 
in  common — there  is,  of  course,  a  peculiar  con- 
geniality— " 

"Congeniality  ?" 

It  struck  me  that  the  only  point  of  congeniality 
between  us  was  that  we  were  both  Caucasians,  but 
I  didn't  say  it. 

"Our  parents  were  friends  long  before  we  were 
born!  This,  of  itself,  certainly  must  bring  in  its 


218  AMAZING  GRACE 

wake  a  degree  of  mutual  affection,"  he  explained, 
and  as  the  words  "mutual  affection"  came  unfeel- 
ingly from  his  lips  I  suddenly  felt  a  thousand 
years  further  advanced  in  wisdom  than  he. 

"But  real  love  may  be — is,  I'm  sure — a  vastly 
different  thing  from  the  regard  we've  had  for 
each  other,"  I  ventured,  trying  not  to  make  a  dis- 
play of  my  superiority  in  learning,  but  he  inter- 
rupted me  contemptuously. 

"  'Real  love !'  What  could  you  possibly  know 
about  that  ?"  he  asked  chillingly.  "You,  who  are 
ready  to  flirt  with  any  stray  foreigner  who 
chances  to  stop  over  in  this  city  for  a  week !  But 
for  me — why,  I  have  never  glanced  at  another 
woman !  I  have  always  understood  my  good  for- 
tune in  being  affianced  to  the  one  woman  in  the 
whole  country  round  who  was  best  fitted  to  bear 
the  honored  name  which  has  descended  to  me." 

When  he  said  this  I  began  to  feel  sorry  for  him. 
I  was  not  sorry  for  his  disappointment,  you  un- 
derstand, but  for  his  view-point.  "I  was  never 


JILTED!  219 

fitted  for  it,  Guilford !"  I  said  humbly.  "It's  true 
I  come  of  the  same  sort  of  stock  that  produced 
you — but  I  am  awkwardly  grafted  on  my  family 
tree !  At  heart  I  am  a  barbarian." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  mean — the  things  you  love  most  I  simply 
forget  about." 

"I  think  you  do!"  he  coincided  heartily.  "You 
have  certainly  forgotten  all  about  ordinary  pro- 
priety to-night." 

At  this  I  waxed  furious  again. 

"How  I  hate  that  word  propriety!"  I  said. 
"And  there's  another  one — a  companion  word 
which  I  never  mean  to  use  until  I'm  past  sixty! 
It's  Platonic! — Those  two  words  remind  me  of 
tarpaulins  in  a  smuggler's  boat  because  you  can 
hide  so  much  underneath  them !" 

"I'm  not  speaking  of  hiding  things,"  he  fired 
back,  as  angry  as  I  was.  "And,  if  you  want  to 
know  the  truth,  I  rather  admire  your  honesty  in 
not  trying  to  pretend  that  your  flirtation  with  this 


220  AMAZING  GRACE 

Englishman  is  Platonic! — Yet  that  certainly 
doesn't  throw  any  more  agreeable  light  upon  this 
happening  to-night. — You  did  go  to  Loomis!" 

I  could  scarcely  keep  from  laughing  at  this, 
for  his  anger  seemed  to  be  centered  in  one  spot — 
like  an  alderman's  avoirdupois!  He  was  think- 
ing far  less  of  losing  me  than  of  the  indelicacy 
of  my  going  to  Loomis. 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  trying  to  make  my  words 
inconsequential.  "Old  man  Hudson  sent  me !" 

His  hat,  which  he  had  held  deferentially  in  his 
hand  all  this  time,  suddenly  fluttered  to  the 
ground. 

"What!" 

"Didn't  you  and  mother  know  that?"  I  asked. 

"That — that  it  was  a  business  proposition  ?"  he 
panted. 

"Certainly — or  I  should  never  have  gone !  How 
little  you  and  mother  know  about  me,  after  all, 
Guilford." 

He  looked  crestfallen  for  a  moment,  then  his 
face  brightened  once  more  into  angry  triumph. 


JILTED!  221 

"But  I  saw  him  making  love  to  you!"  he 
summed  up  hastily,  as  an  afterthought. 

"Yes — you  did,"  I  assured  him  exultantly. 

"And  you  met  him  for  the  first  time — let  me 
see  ?  What  day  was  it  ?" 

I  ignored  the  sarcasm. 

"Tuesday,"  I  answered.  "At  four  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon." 

"And  not  a  soul  in  this  town  knows  a  thing 
about  him!" 

"Except  myself,"  I  protested.  "I  know  a  great 
deal  about  him." 

"Then,  do  you  happen  to  know — I  heard  it 
from  a  fellow  in  Pittsburgh  who  has  followed  his 
meteoric  career  as  captain  of  industry — do  you 
happen  to  know  that  he  makes  no  secret  of  having 
left  England  because  he  was  so  handicapped  by 
disadvantages  of  birth?" 

I  hesitated  just  a  moment — not  in  doubt  as  to 
what  I  should  say,  but  as  to  how  I  should  say  it. 

"That's  all  right,  Guilford,"  I  answered  com- 
placently. "If  his  ancestors  all  looked  like  'gen- 


222  AMAZING  GRACE 

tlemen  of  the  jury'  it  doesn't  lessen  his  own  dig- 
nity and  grandeur." 

Now,  if  you've  never  been  in  a  circuit  court 
room  you  can't  appreciate  the  above  simile,  but 
Guilford  was  a  lawyer. 

He  looked  at  me  in  a  dazed  fashion  for  an  in- 
stant. 

"Grace,  you  don't  feel  ill — nor  anything — do 
you  ?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"Oh,  no!" 

"But  I  can't  believe  that  you're  exactly  right  in 
your  mind !" 

"Well— maybe— " 

"I  can't  believe  that  to-morrow  morning  will 
actually  dawn  and  find  us  asunder,"  he  kept  on 
quickly.  "It  must  be  some  sort  of  fantastic 
dream." 

"It  will  seem  very — queer,  at  first,  Guilford," 
I  confessed,  with  a  preliminary  shrinking  at  the 
thought  of  facing  mother. 

"Queer's  no  word  to  use  in  connection  with  it," 
he  answered  crossly,  then  I  heard  heavy  footsteps 


JILTED!  223 

in  the  corridor  above,  and  I  took  a  quick  step  to- 
ward him. 

"I  must  go  up-stairs,"  I  whispered.  "Old  man 
Hudson  is  making  night  hideous,  I  know! — But 
all  this  is  really  true,  Guilford!  And — and  you 
must  wear  this  in  your  vest  pocket  now !" 

I  slipped  the  scarab  ring  into  his  hand. 

"You  are  determined  ?"  he  asked  dully. 

"I  am — awakened,"  I  replied. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  mean  that  you  are  not  really  in  love  with  me 
— never  have  been  in  love  with  me,  and  never 
could  be  except  upon  certain  occasions  when  I 
was  dreadfully  dressed-up — where  there  were  red 
roses  and  the  sound  of  violin  music." 

"Grace,  you  are — unkind,"  he  said,  with  a  grop- 
ing look  on  his  face.  "I  confess  that  I  don't  in 
the  least  understand  you!" 

"Then  how  lucky  we  are!"  I  exclaimed.  "So 
many  people  don't  find  this  out  until  after  they've 
got  their  house  all  furnished!  We're  going  to  be 
friends  always,  Guilford." 


224  AMAZING  GRACE 

Then,  without  waiting  for  him  to  say  more  I 
turned  away  and  ran  breathlessly  up  the  steps  into 
the  office. 

The  brilliant  light  in  the  city  news  room  met 
me  squarely  as  I  opened  the  door.  I  blinked  a 
little — then  raised  my  left  hand  and  examined  it 
closely.  It  looked — awful!  I  had  worn  that  same 
ring  ever  since  I  was  seventeen  years  old — and  I 
felt  as  I  might  feel  if  I'd  just  had  my  hair  cut  off 
or  suffered  some  other  unprecedented  loss. 

The  city  editor  looked  up  from  his  desk. 

"Well?"  he  inquired.    "Have  you  got  it?" 

I  was  still  gazing  at  that  left  hand. 

"No,"  I  answered  stupidly.     "It's  gone!" 

He  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"Here!"  he  commanded  sharply.     "Sit  down 
here!" 

I  sat  down,  letting  my  bag  slide  to  the  floor. 

"You  don't  feel  sick— do  you?" 

"No." 

"You  didn't  fall  off  the  street-car—did  you  ?" 

"No." 


JILTED!  225 

"You  haven't  happened  to  any  sort  of  trouble 
— have  you  ?" 

"No." 

The  "No — No — No — "  was  in  the  monotonous 
tone  a  person  says  "Ninety-nine"  when  his  lungs 
are  being  examined. 

Mr.  Hudson  looked  at  me  closely. 

"Then — the  story!"  he  said. 

I  blankly  reached  for  my  bag,  opened  it  and 
took  out  the  blank  copy  paper. 

"Oh — damn — "  he  began,  then  swallowed. 

This  awakened  me  from  my  trance. 

"But  he  docs!"  I  exclaimed  in  triumph.  He  is 
— and  he's  going  to  be!" 

"Here?"  the  editorial  voice  called  out  sharply 
and  joyously.  "Here  in  Oldburgh  ?" 

My  head  bobbed  a  concise  yes. 

"Bigger  and  better  than  ever?"  my  questioner 
tormented. 

"A  thousand  times !  Happiness  for  everybody ! 
— Where  there's  a  family  there'll  also  be  a  House 
that's  a  Home — " 


226  AMAZING  GRACE 

The  old  fellow  began  scribbling. 

"I  reckon  he  means  model  cottages,"  he  ob- 
served sourly.  "They  all  make  a  great  pretense 
of  loving  their  neighbor  as  themselves  in  this  day 
and  time." 

"Yes — even  if  it's  a  cottage  it  will  certainly  be 
a  model  one — and  what  more  could  one  desire?" 
I  asked,  rambling  again. 

"Then— what  else?" 

"And — oh!  Gardens!  Gardens — gardens!" 

He  held  up  his  hand. 

v"Wait — you  go  too  darn  fast !" 

"I'm  sorry!  Maybe  I  have  gone  too  fast!"  I 
answered,  as  I  settled  back  in  my  chair  and  my 
face  reddened  uncomfortably.  "Maybe  I  have 
gone  too  fast!" 

"You  have !  You  confuse  me — talking  the  way 
you  do  and  looking  the  way  you  do!  By  rights 
I  ought  to  make  you  write  the  story  out  yourself 
— but  you  don't  look  as  if  you  could  spell  'Un- 
precedented good  fortune  in  the  annals  of  Old- 
burgh's  industrial  career/  to-night!" 


JILTED!  227 

"I'm  sure  I  couldn't,"  I  admitted  readily. 
"Please  don't  ask  me  to." 

"Well — go  on  with  your  narrative.  What 
else?" 

"Acres  and  acres!  Acres  and  acres!"  I  im- 
pressed upon  him.  "That's  \vhat  I've  always 
wanted !  I  love  acres  so  much  better  than  neigh- 
bors— don't  you?" 

He  paused  in  his  writing. 

"Of  course  the  Macdermott  Realty  Company 
did  the  stunt  ?"  he  asked,  scratching  his  head  with 
his  pencil  tip  and  leaving  a  little  black  mark  along 
the  field  of  redness.  "We  mustn't  forget  to  men- 
tion each  individual  member  of  the  firm. — And 
then—?" 

"A  schoolhouse,"  I  remembered. 

He  glared. 

"A  schoolhouse  ?"  he  questioned.    "What  for  ?" 

"For  the  children!"  I  answered,  lowering  my 
eyes.  "Did  you  think  there  wouldn't  be  any  chil- 
dren? How  could  there  be  a  House  that  was  a 
Home  without  them  ?" 


228  AMAZING  GRACE 

"Oh,  and  this  fellow,  Tait,  is  going  to  see  to  it 
that  they're  educated,  eh?  They're  going  to  have 
advantages  that  he  didn't  have — and  all  that  sort 
of  thing?  Very  praiseworthy,  I'm  sure!" 

I  sprang  up  from  my  chair. 

"I'm  going  home,  Mr.  Hudson,  please!"  I 
begged.  "There  is  something  wrong  with  my 
head." 

He  smiled. 

"It's  different  from  any  other  woman's  head 
I  ever  saw,"  he  admitted  half  grudgingly.  "It's 
level!" 

"But  indeed  you're  mistaken!"  I  plead.  "Right 
this  minute  I'm — I'm  seeing  things !" 

Then,  when  I  said  this  a  gentle  light  stole  over 
his  face — such  a  light  I'm  sure  that  few  people 
ever  saw  there — perhaps  nobody  ever  had  except 
Mrs.  Hudson  the  day  he  proposed  to  her. 

"Visions?"  he  asked  kindly.  "A  House  that's 
a  Home — and  English  gardens.'* 

"That's  not  fair !"  I  warned.  "I  really  ought 
not  to  have  gone  out  there  to-night — and  I  don't 
know  whether  he'll  want  all  this  written  up  or 


JILTED!  229 

not — for  I  didn't  mention  the  Herald's  name  in 
our  conversation,  and — " 

"Bosh !"  he  snapped.  "Rot!  And  piffle!  You 
had  a  right  to  go  out  there  if  I  sent  you — and  of 
course  he  can't  object  to  the  public  knowing 
now!  Why,  I  expect  any  one  of  the  reporters 
could  have  got  as  much  out  of  him  to-night  as 
you  did!" 

"Do  you  really  think  so?"  I  asked,  from  the 
doorway.  "Good  night,  Mr.  Hudson.  You  can 
easily  make  two  columns  out  of  that,  by  drawing 
on  your — past  experience." 

He  waved  me  crossly  away,  without  once  look- 
ing up  or  saying  "Thank  you"  and  I  caught  a 
car  home.  Half  an  hour  later,  when  the  curve 
was  turned  into  the  full  face  of  West  Clydemont 
Place  I  still  thought  I  was  "seeing  things."  A  big 
motor-car  stood  before  our  door,  but  my  heart 
changed  its  tune  when  I  got  closer.  It  was  not  a 
limousine.  It  was  a  doctor's  coupe.  Mother  had 
suffered  a  violent  chill. 

"Grace,  I — have  no  words!"  she  moaned,  as  I 
came  into  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  SKIES  FALL 

BEFORE  morning  words  began  coming  to 
her — gradually.  First  she  moaned,  then 
muttered,  then  raged.  The  chill  disappeared  and 
fever  came  on.  By  daybreak,  however,  they  had 
both  been  left  with  the  things  that  were,  and 
mother  slipped  into  her  kimono. 

"Go  bring  me  the  morning  paper,"  she  con- 
descended, after  the  passing  of  the  creamery 
wagon  announced  that  busy  life  was  still  going 
on. 

I  rushed  out  into  the  front  yard.  The  tree-tops 
were  misty  with  that  white  fog  which  looks  as  if 
darkness  were  trailing  her  nightrobe  behind  her; 
and  already  on  the  neighboring  lawns  the  auto- 
matic sprinklers  were  caroming  across  the  green 
as  if  they  had  St.  Vitus'  dance. 
230 


THE  SKIES  FALL  231 

"On  a  day  like  this  nothing  is  too  good  to  be 
true!"  I  decided,  as  I  picked  up  the  paper  and 
scurried  back  into  the  house. 

"And  got  your  name  to  it — Grace  Chalmers 
Christie !"  mother  wailed  in  despair,  as  she  opened 
the  sheet  and  saw  two  columns,  broken  by  a  face 
that  could  do  much  more  sensible  things  than 
"launch  a  thousand  ships  and  burn  the  topless 
towers  of  Ilium." 

"Let's — see,"  I  suggested,  peering  over  her 
shoulder  and  watching  the  words  dancing  up  and 
down  on  either  side  of  this  face.  I  couldn't  read 
anything,  but  I  managed  to  catch  an  occasional 
"Macdermott"  as  it  pranced  along  in  front  of  an 
occasional  "model  cottage." 

"Take  it! — Burn  it!"  mother  commanded,  after 
she  had  read  enough  to  realize  that  the  thing  was 
entirely  too  dull  to  prove  interesting  to  any 
feminine  creature. 

She  thrust  it  into  my  hand,  and  I  took  it  into 
my  bedroom,  where  I  began  a  frenzied  search  for 
the  scissors. 


232  AMAZING  GRACE 

"I'd  rather  have  you  by  yourself — away  from 
all  suggestions  of  Macdermotts  and  enlarged  trac- 
tion companies,"  I  whispered,  snipping  the  pic- 
ture from  the  page  and  laying  it  caressingly  in  the 
drawer  of  the  old-fashioned  desk. 

There  it  lay  all  morning — and  I  whispered  to  it 
and  caressed  it. 

"A  picture  in  a  drawer  is  worth  two  on  the 
wall,"  I  said  once,  as  I  pushed  it  away  quickly  to 
keep  mother  from  seeing  it.  But  the  fun  of  the 
secret  was  not  at  all  times  uppermost. 

"You  are  so  beautiful — so  beautiful,"  I  wailed, 
as  I  looked  at  it  another  time.  "I  almost  wish 
you  were  not — so  beautiful." 

For  you  must  know  that  no  woman  in  love  ever 
enjoys  her  man's  good  looks !  She  loves  him  for 
so  many  other  things  besides  beauty  that  she  feels 
this  demand  is  a  needless  cruelty — adding  to  her 
torture  and  making  her  love  him  the  more.  The 
only  male  beauty  she  can  ungrudgingly  adore  is 
that  which  she  cradles  in  her  arms — the  miniature 


THE  SKIES  FALL  233 

of  the  Big  Good  Looks  which  have  lured  her  and 
tormented  her! 

Then — just  for  the  sake  of  keeping  away  from 
this  drawer — I  did  different  things  to  pass  away 
the  morning.  I  said  good-by  to  the  picture,  then 
went  into  the  library  and  looked  up  a  word  in  the 
dictionary.  I  looked  at  the  picture  again  after 
that — to  make  sure  that  it  was  still  there — then  I 
decided  to  wash  my  hair.  But  I  changed  my 
mind,  for  I  was  afraid  the  water  might  drip  on 
the  picture  and  ruin  it.  I  looked  up  a  bodkin  and 
some  blue  baby  ribbon — and  forgot  to  gear  up  the 
corset-cover  whose  eyelets  were  gaping  hungrily 
before  my  eyes.  While  I  was  trying  to  remember 
what  one  usually  does  with  a  bodkin  and  blue  rib- 
bon I  looked  at  the  picture  again — and,  well,  if 
you  have  ever  been  there  you  can  understand; 
and  if  you  haven't  no  words  could  ever  explain.' 

Then  the  telephone  in  the  hall !  I  tried  to  keep 
away  from  it  as  hard  as  they  say  a  murderer  tries 
to  keep  away  from  the  scene  of  his  crime, 


234  AMAZING  GRACE 

"I  won't  call  him  until  afternoon,"  I  kept  tell- 
ing myself.  "It  would  be  perfectly  outrageous. 
I'll  call  him  from  the  office — just  about  dusk, 
and " 

Then  I  began  seeing  things  again — houses  and 
English  gardens,  with  children  and  schoolhouses 
in  the  background,  and  a  smile  on  the  face  of  Pope 
Gregory,  the  Somethingth,  when  he  saw  the  Union 
Jack  and  Old  Glory  flying  in  peace  above  this 
vision — until  I  came  to  the  office  in  time  for  the 
one  o'clock  staff  meeting. 

The  first  thing  I  saw  there  was  a  note  lying  on 
my  desk.  It  bore  no  post-mark,  so  I  knew  that  it 
must  have  come  by  messenger. 

"What  can  he  have  said?"  I  thought,  catching 
it  up  and  weighing  it  in  my  hands.  "And  I  won- 
der why  he  sent  it  here  to  the  Herald  office,  in- 
stead of  out  home — and  why  he  addressed  it  to 
Miss  G.  C.  Christie,  as  if  it  were  a  business 
communication  instead  of  to  Miss  Grace  Chalm- 
ers Christie,  and  why " 

I  looked  at  it  again.     It  was  surely  from  him, 


THE  SKIES  FALL  235 

for  it  was  written  on  traction  company  paper.  I 
was  glad  of  this,  for  I  can  forgive  a  man  for  any- 
thing— if  he  doesn't  use  fancy  note-paper  with  his 
monogram  in  the  corner. 

I  weighed  it,  and  turned  it  over  several  times, 
and  found  a  vague  "Habana"  fragrance  about  it — 
before  I  ran  a  hairpin  under  the  flap  and  opened 
it.  It  ran  as  follows : 


"My  dear  Miss  Christie — 

"I  have  no  doubt  that  you  already  know  every 
man  to  be  an  Achilles — who  welds  a  heel  protector 
out  of  his  egotism.  Now,  it  happens  that  my 
most  vulnerable  spot  is  a  distaste  to  being  made  a 
fool  of;  and  to-day  I  can  realize  what  a  heavy 
coating  of  self-importance  lay  over  this  spot 
yesterday  to  blind  me  to  your  real  motive. 

"My  apology  for  being  such  an  easy-mark  is 
that  it  was  a  case  of  mistaken  identity.  I  want 
you  to  know  that,  as  an  actress,  you  are  amazing! 
I  firmly  believed  that  an  unusually  fair  and  charm- 
ing woman  was  doing  me  a  great  honor — but  I 
awoke  this  morning  from  my  trance  to  find  that  a 
clever  newspaper  reporter  had  outwitted  me. 

"I  understand  now  why  American  Woman 
must  be  kept  as  a  tormenting  side-issue  in  a  man's 


236  AMAZING  GRACE 

busy  life.     He  can't  afford  to  let  her  come  to  the 
front  or  she  throws  dust  in  his  eyes. 

"Of  course  the  words  I  said  to  the  vision  of 
my  own  fancy  and  the  promises  I  exacted,  do  not 
hold  good  with  the  reporter.  I  am  leaving  Old- 
burgh  at  noon  to-day,  and  even  if  I  were  not,  you 
would  not  care  to  see  me  again,  since  I  know  noth- 
ing more  that  would  serve  as  a  front-page  article 
for  the  Herald." 

"Very  sincerely  yours, 

"MAITLAND  TAIT." 

Now,  do  you  know  what  happens  when  a 
woman  receives  such  a  letter  as  this — a  letter  that 
starts  seismic  disturbances  ?  Well,  first  she  blames 
her  eyesight.  She  thinks  she  hasn't  read  the  thing 
aright!  Then  she  carries  it  off  into  some  dark 
corner  where  she  hopes  she  can  see  better,  for  the 
strong  glare  of  day  seems  to  make  matters  worse. 
If  there's  an  attic  near,  so  much  the  better! 

But  there  was  no  available  attic  to  the  Herald 
office,  so  I  walked  into  the  society  editor's  private 
room  and  slammed  the  door.  I  had  thrust  the 
note  into  my  blouse,  so  that  I'd  have  a  little  breath- 
ing-spell while  I  was  getting  it  out,  and  as  I  tug- 


THE  SKIES  FALL  237 

ged  with  a  contrary  belt  pin  I  breathed  very  hard 
and  fast. 

But  the  second  reading  disclosed  few  details 
that  had  not  been  sent  over  the  wires  at  the  first 
report.  Likewise  the  third,  fourth  and  fifth. 
After  that  I  lost  count,  and  when  I  regained  con- 
sciousness there  was  a  heavy  knock  at  the  door — 
a  knock  in  the  possessive  case.  I  rose  wearily 
and  admitted  the  rightful  owner. 

"Say,  Grace,"  she  commenced  excitedly,  "the 
old  man's  asking  for  you — Captain  Macauley! 
He  wants  you  to  come  down  to  his  den  at  once 
for  an  interview.  How  does  it  feel  to  be  the  big- 
gest thing  on  the  Herald — for  a  day?" 

I  put  my  hand  up  to  my  forehead. 

"It  feels  like " 

She  laughed. 

"Then  try  to  look  like  it,"  she  suggested. 
"Why,  you  look  positively  seasick  to-day." 

I  didn't  stop  to  explain  my  bearing  false  wit- 
ness, but  dashed  past  her  to  the  head  of  the  stairs. 
Captain  Macauley's  office  was  on  a  lower  floor, 


238  AMAZING  GRACE 

and  by  the  time  I  had  gone  leisurely  down  the 
steps  I  had  quieted  my  eyelids  somewhat. 

"Well,  Grace — how  about  the  illegitimate  use 
of  weapons?"  the  old  man  laughed,  lifting  his 
shaggy  head  from  the  front  page  of  the  day's 
Herald,  as  I  entered.  "Sit  down!  Sit  down — I 
want  to  talk  with  you." 

But  for  a  moment  he  failed  to  talk.  He  looked 
me  over  quizzically,  then  turned  to  his  desk  and 
drew  a  yellow  envelope  from  a  pigeonhole.  It 
was  a  telegram.  I  opened  it  wonderingly. 

"Pauline  Calhoun  met  with  a  serious  motor- 
car accident  yesterday  and  will  be  compelled  to 
cancel  her  contract  with  you."  I  read.  I  looked 
at  the  old  man. 

"To  go  abroad  this  summer  for  the  Herald?" 
I  asked. 

He  nodded. 

"We've  advertised  her  going,"  he  said  mourn- 
fully. "And  the  transportation  is  here." 

"She  was  to  have  sailed  Saturday  week?"  I 
asked,  wondering  at  the  cunning  machinery  of  my 


THE  SKIES  FALL  239 

own  brain,  which  could  keep  on  working  after  it 
was  cold  and  dead !  Every  inch  of  my  body  was 
paralyzed. 

"On  the  Luxuria"  he  said  cheeringly,  as  he 
saw  my  expression.  "The  Luxuria,  mind  you, 
young  lady !" 

"And  to  miss  it?  How  tragic!"  I  kept  on 
absently,  wishing  that  the  whole  Cunard  Line  was 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  if  he  meant  to  keep  me 
there  chattering  about  it  all  day. 

"But  it's  tragic  for  the  Herald,"  he  snapped. 
"Don't  you  see  we're  up  against  it  ?  Here,  every 
paper  in  the  South  is  doing  stunts  like  this — 
getting  out  special  stuff  with  its  individual  brand 
— and  Pauline  Calhoun  can  deliver  the  goods." 

"Not  with  her  arm  broken,"  I  mused  aloud. 

He  looked  at  me  impatiently. 

"The  thing  is,  we've  got  to  send  somebody 
abroad  next  week — somebody  whose  leg  is  not 
broken!" 

"Oh!" 

"And  Hudson  and  I  have  been  discussing  you. 


240  AMAZING  GRACE 

This  job  you  roped  in  last  night  was  more  than 
we'd  given  you  credit  for,  and — so — well,  can't 
you  speak?" 

I  couldn't  speak,  but  I  could  laugh.  I  felt  as 
if  my  fairy  godmother  had  taken  me  to  a  moving- 
picture  show — where  one  scene  was  from  Dante's 
Inferno  and  the  next  one  was  from  a  novel  by  the 
Duchess. 

"There'd  be  Italy "  Captain  Macauley  be- 
gan, but  I  shrank  back. 

"Not  Italy !"  I  begged.  "I  couldn't  go  to  Italy 
now." 

"Why?" 

"Because  you'd  want  me  to  write  a  lot  of  senti- 
mental stuff  from  there — and  I'm  not  sentimental 
— now." 

He  smiled. 

"Italy  is  the  land  of  lovers,"  he  whispered,  his 
eyes  twinkling  over  some  1870  recollection.  "You 
must  be  in  love  with  somebody  when  you're  in 
Italy — and  you  can  no  more  hide  it  than  you  can 
hide  nettle-rash." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  there,"  I  said  stiffly. 


•-••Well;, can't  you  speak? " 


THE  SKIES  FALL  241 

"Well,  you  wouldn't  have  to!"  he  answered 
readily.  "This  steamer  ticket  reads  from  New 
York  to  Liverpool." 

"Liverpool?"  I  repeated,  as  blankly  as  if 
geography  hadn't  been  my  favorite  book  at  school 
— to  eat  apples  behind. 

"And  Hudson  suggested,  since  you  showed  last 
night  that  you  were  keen  on  getting  the  news  of 
the  hour,  that  you'd  likely  succeed  in  a  new  line 
in  England.  We've  been  surfeited  on  West- 
minster Abbey  and  the  lakes,  so  we  want  news! 
Coal  strikes  and  suffragettes — and  other  curses !" 

"News?" 

"Instead  of  mooning  around  Hampstead  Heath 
listening  to  the  newest  scandal  about  George 
Romney  and  his  lady  friend,  stay  strictly  in  the 
twentieth  century  and  get  in  line  with  the  mili- 
tants. Describe  how  they  address  crowds  from 
cart-tails." 

"I  see,"  I  said  slowly. 

But  in  my  attempts  to  see  I  think  I  must  have 
passed  my  left  hand  across  my  forehead.  At  all 
events,  he  caught  sight  of  its  ringless  state. 


242  AMAZING  GRACE 

"Grace!"  he  exclaimed,  catching  my  fingers 
roughly  and  scrutinizing  the  little  pallid  circle  left 
by  the  ring's  long  contact — sometimes  the  health- 
iest, sometimes  the  deadliest  pallor  that  female 
flesh  is  heir  to!  "Does  this  mean  that  you've 
broken  off  with  Guilford  Blake?" 

"Yes." 

His  face  grew  grave. 

"Then,  child,  I  beg  your  pardon  for  talking  so 
glibly  about  your  going  away  I — I  didn't  know." 

"But  it  isn't  that — it's  not  that  I'm  worrying 
over  now,"  I  explained  forlornly.  "And  Guil- 
ford's  not  hurt!  Please  don't  waste  sympathy 
on  him.  He'll  be  glad,  when  the  first  shock  gets 
over,  for  I've  tormented  him  unmercifully." 

"Then — what  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  very  gently. 

I  drew  away  my  hand. 

"It's — something  else!  And  please  don't 
change  your  mind  about  sending  me  abroad !  I'd 
like  very  much  to  go  away  from  here.  Any- 
where except  to  Italy." 


THE  SKIES  FALL  243 

He  reached  over  and  patted  my  bereft  hand 
affectionately. 

"So  the  something  else  is  the  same  sort  of 
something,  after  all?" 

"Perhaps." 

"Then  run  along  and  begin  getting  ready,"  he 
said.  "Get  clothes  in  your  head — and  salt- 
sprayed  decks  on  moonlight  nights,  and  wild  ad- 
ventures." 

I  smiled. 

"That's  right!  Smile!  I  can't  send  out  a 
representative  with  a  broken  leg — and  I'd  prefer 
not  sending  out  one  with  a  broken  heart." 

I  turned  away  then,  struggling  fiercely  with 
something  in  my  throat,  but  just  for  an  instant. 

"Broken  heart!"  I  repeated  scornfully.  "It's 
not  that  bad.  You  mustn't  think  I'm  such  a 
fool." 

"Well,"  he  said  briskly,  "whatever  it  is,  cut  it 
out !  And,  believe  me,  my  dear,  a  steamer  trunk 
is  the  best  possible  grave  for  unrequited  love." 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  JOURNEY 

PERSONALLY,  I  am  of  such  an  impatient 
disposition  that  I  can't  bear  to  read  a  chapter 

in    a    book    which    begins:     "Meanwhile " 

Life  is  too  short  for  meanwhiles !  But,  since  the 
Oldburgh  epoch  of  my  career  has  passed,  and  the 
brilliant  new  epoch  has  a  sea-voyage  before  it — 
and  crossing  the  ocean  is  distinctly  a  "mean- 
while" occupation — I  have  decided  to  mark  time 
by  taking  extracts  from  my  green  leather  voyage 
book,  with  the  solid  gold  clasp  and  the  pencil  that 
won't  write.  (The  city  editor  gave  me  the  book.) 
The  first  entry  was  made  at  the  breakfast  table 
in  an  unnecessarily  smart  New  York  hotel. 
That's  one  bad  feature  about  having  a  newspaper 
pay  your  traveling  expenses!  You  can't  have 
244 


THE  JOURNEY  245 

the  pleasure  of  indulging  the  vagabondage  of  your 
nature — as  you  can  when  you're  traveling  on 
your  hook.  The  lonely  little  entry  says : 

"Hate  New  York!  Always  feel  countrified 
and  unpopular  here !" 

But  the  next  one  was  much  better.     It  reads: 

"Love  the  sea,  whose  principal  charm  is  the 
sky  above  it!  The  one  acceptable  fact  about 
orthodox  Heaven  is  that  it's  up  in  the  sky.  You 
couldn't  endure  it  if  it  were  in  any  closer 
quarters." 

Yet  between  New  York  and  Heaven  there  lay 
several  unappreciated  days — days  when  I  sat  for 
long  hours  facing  strange  faces  and  hearing  a 
jumbled  jargon  about  "barth"  hours,  deck  chairs 
and  miscarried  roses.  By  the  way,  a  strange 
trick  of  fate  had  filled  my  own  bare  little  state- 
room with  flowers.  I  say  a  trick  of  fate,  because 
some  of  them  were  for  Pauline  Calhoun,  whose 
New  York  friends  had  heard  of  her  proposed 
journey,  but  not  of  her  accident,  and  some  of 
them  were  addressed  to  me.  I  could  understand 
the  Pauline  blossoms,  but  those  directed  to  Miss 


246  AMAZING  GRACE 

Grace  Christie  were  mystifying — very.  But  I 
accepted  them  with  hearty  thanks,  and  the  time  I 
spent  wondering  over  them  kept  me  from  griev- 
ing over  the  fact  that  the  Statue  of  Liberty  was 
the  only  person  on  the  horizon  whose  face  I  had 
ever  seen  before ;  and  they  kept  me  feeling  like  a 
prima  donna  for  half  a  week. 

"Henry  Walker  couldn't  have  sent  them,"  I 
pondered  the  first  day,  as  the  big,  big  box  was 
deposited  inside  my  door.  "He's  not  such  a  close 
friend,  even  though  he  is  the  Hiram  Walkers'  son 
— and  then,  New  York  law  students  never  have 
any  money  left  over  for  orchids." 

I  enumerated  all  the  other  people  I  happened  to 
know  in  New  York  at  that  time,  all  of  them  there 
for  the  purpose  of  "studying"  something,  and  not 
for  the  purpose  of  buying  vast  quantities  of  the 
highest-priced  flower  blown,  and  the  mystery  only 
loomed  larger. 

Still,  the  question  could  not  keep  me  entirely 
occupied  between  meals,  and  on  the  very  day  we 
sailed,  before  we  had  got  into  the  space  where 


THE  JOURNEY  247 

the  union  of  the  sea  and  sky  seem  to  shut  out  all 
pettiness,  I  got  to  feeling  very  sorry  for  myself. 
Thinking  to  get  rid  of  this  by  mingling  with 
humanity,  I  went  down  into  the  lounge,  where 
I  was  amazed  to  find  dozens  of  other  women 
sitting  around  feeling  sorry  for  themselves.  It 
was  not  an  inspiring  sight,  so  after  a  vain  attempt 
to  read,  I  curled  my  arms  round  a  sofa  cushion  in 
the  corner  of  the  big  room  and  turned  my  face 
away  from  the  world  in  general.  The  next  com- 
munication I  received  was  rather  unexpected.  I 
heard  a  brisk  voice,  close  beside  me  exclaim : 

"My  word !     A  great  big  girl  like  you  crying !" 

It  was  an  English  voice — a  woman's,  or  rather 
a  girl's,  and  as  I  braced  up  indignantly  I  met  the 
blue-gray  eyes  of  a  fresh-faced  young  Amazon 
bent  toward  my  corner  sympathetically. 

"I'm  not  crying,"  I  denied. 

She  turned  directly  toward  me  then,  and  I  saw 
a  surprised  smile  come  over  her  face. 

"Oh,  you!  No — I  supposed  that  you  were  ill; 
but  the  little  kid  over  there " 


248  AMAZING  GRACE 

I  saw  then  that  there  was  a  tiny  girl  tucked 
farther  away  into  the  corner,  her  shoulders  heav- 
ing between  the  conflict  of  pride  and  grief. 

"Cheer  up,  and  I'll  tell  you  a  story,"  the  Eng- 
lish girl  encouraged,  and  after  a  few  minutes  the 
small  flushed  face  came  out  of  its  hiding-place. 

"So  you  thought  I  was  talking  to  you?" 

She  turned  to  me  laughingly  after  the  smaller 
bunch  of  loneliness  had  been  soothed  and  sent 
away. 

"I  was — mistaken " 


"But  I'm  sure  I  should  have  offered  to  tell  you 
a  story — if  I  had  supposed  that  it  would  do  you 
any  good,"  she  continued. 

"Almost  anything — any  sound  of  a  human 
voice  would  do  me  good  now,"  I  answered 
desperately,  and  with  that  sky-rocket  sort  of  spon- 
taneity which  you  feel  you  can  afford  once  or 
twice  in  a  lifetime. 

"You're  alone?" 

"Yes — and  miserable." 

Her  blue  eyes  were  very  frank  and  friendly, 


THE  JOURNEY  249 

and  I  immediately  straightened  up  with  a  hope 
that  we  might  discover  some  mutual  interest 
nearer  and  dearer  than  the  Boston  Tea-Party. 

That's  one  good  thing  about  a  seafaring  life — 
the  preliminaries  that  you  are  able  to  do  without 
in  making  friends.  If  you  meet  a  nice  woman 
who  discovers  that  her  son  went  to  Princeton 
with  your  father's  friend's  nephew  you  at  once 
take  it  for  granted  that  you  may  tell  her  many 
things  about  yourself  that  are  not  noted  down  in 
your  passport. 

"You're  American — of  course?"  this  English 
girl  asked  next. 

I  acquiesced  patriotically,  but  not  arrogantly. 

"Yes — I'm  American!  My  name's  Grace 
Christie,  and  I'm  a  newspaper  woman  from — 
from " 

I  hesitated,  and  she  looked  at  me  inquiringly. 

"I  didn't  understand  the  name  of  the  state?" 
she  said. 

"Because  I  haven't  told  you  yet!"  I  laughed. 
"I  remember  other  experiences  in  mentioning  my 


250  AMAZING  GRACE 

native  place  to  you  English.  You  always  say. 
'Oh,  the  place  where  the  negro  minstrels  come 
from!'" 

She  smiled,  and  her  face  brightened  suddenly. 

"The  South!  How  nice !  I  love  Americans !" 
she  exclaimed,  confiding  the  clause  about  her 
affection  for  my  countrymen  in  a  lowered  voice, 
and  looking  around  to  make  sure  that  no  one 
heard. 

Then,  after  this,  it  took  her  about  half  a  minute 
to  invite  me  out  of  my  corner  and  to  propose  that 
I  go  and  meet  her  father  and  mother. 

"We'll  find  them  in  the  library,"  she  ventured, 
and  we  did. 

"The  South !  How  nice !  We  love  Americans !" 
they  both  exclaimed,  as  we  unearthed  them  a  little 
while  later  in  a  corner  of  the  reading-room.  And 
before  they  had  confided  to  me  their  affection  for 
my  countrymen  they  lowered  their  voices  and 
glanced  at  their  daughter  to  make  sure  that  she 
was  not  listening.  They  made  their  observations 
in  precisely  the  same  tone  and  they  looked  pre- 


THE  JOURNEY  251 

cisely  alike,  except  that  the  father  had  side- 
whiskers.  They  were  both  small  and  slight  and 
very  durably  dressed. 

"Miss  Christie  is  a  newspaper  woman — travel- 
ing alone!" 

The  daughter,  whom  they  addressed  as  "Hilda" 
made  the  announcement  promptly,  and  her  man- 
ner seemed  to  warn  them  that  if  they  found  this 
any  just  cause  or  impediment  they  were  to  speak 
now  or  else  hereafter  forever  hold  their  peace. 

"Indeed?"  said  the  mother,  looking  over  my 
clothes  with  a  questioning  air,  which,  however, 
did  not  disapprove.  "Indeed?" 

"My  word!"  said  the  father,  also  taking  stock 
of  me,  but  his  glance  got  no  further  than  my 
homesick  face.  "My  word!" 

But  you  are  not  to  suppose  from  the  tone  that 
anything  had  gone  seriously  wrong  with  his  word. 
He  said  it  in  a  gently  searching  way,  as  an  old 
grandfather,  seeking  about  blindly  on  the  mantle- 
piece  might  say,  "My  spectacles !" 

So  realistic  was  the  impression  of  his  peering 


252  AMAZING  GRACE 

around  mildly  in  search  of  something  that  I  al- 
most jumped  up  from  my  chair  to  see  if  I  could, 
by  mistake,  be  sitting  on  his  word. 

"Isn't  she  young?" 

His  twinkling  little  gray  eyes  sought  his  wife's 
as  if  for  corroboration,  and  she  nodded  vigor- 
ously. 

"Indeed,  yes,  Herbert!  But  they  shed  their 
pinafores  long  before  our  girls  do,  remember!" 

Then  he  turned  to  his  daughter. 

"My  dear,  the  American  women  eyre  so  ca- 
pable !''  he  said,  and  she  threw  him  a  smile  which 
would  have  been  regarded  as  impertinent — on 
English  soil. 

"Well,  I'm  sure  I've  no  objections  to  being  an 
American  woman  myself,"  she  said. 

"And  you  do  not  mind  the  loneliness  of  the 
trip  you're  taking?"  the  mother  put  in  hastily,  as 
if  to  cover  her  daughter's  remark. 

"I  didn't— until  to-day." 

"But  we  must  see  to  it  now  that  you're  not  too 
lonely,"  she  hastened  to  assure  me.  "Where. 


THE  JOURNEY  253 

have  they  put  you  in  the  dining-room,  my  dear  ?" 

I  mentioned  my  table's  location. 

"Oh,  but  we'll  get  the  steward  to  change  you  at 
once!"  they  chorused,  when  it  had  been  pointed 
out  to  them  that  my  position  in  the  salon  was 
isolated  and  far  away  from  the  music  of  the 
orchestra. 

"We're  just  next  the  captain's  table,"  Hilda 
explained.  "We  happened  to  know  him  and " 

"And  it's  inspiring  to  watch  the  liberties  he 
takes  with  the  menu,"  the  father  said.  "I'd  best 
write  down  our  number,  though  I'll  see  the 
steward  myself." 

From  his  pocketbook  he  produced  a  card, 
scribbling  their  table  number  upon  the  back  and 
handing  it  to  me. 

I  took  it  and  glanced  at  the  legend  the  face  of 
it  bore,  first  of  all,  for  figures  are  just  figures, 
even  though  they  do  radiate  out  from  the  cap- 
tain's table. 

"Mr.  Herbert  Montgomery,  Bannerley  Hall, 
Bannerley,  Lancashire,"  was  the  way  it  read. 


254  AMAZING  GRACE 

"Lancashire?"  I  asked,  looking  up  so  quickly 
that  Hilda  mistook  my  emotion  for  dismay. 

"Yes,  we  live  in  Lancashire,  but " 

"But  we're  going  on  to  London  first,"  Mrs. 
Montgomery  assured  me. 

"We'll  see  to  it  that  you're  put  down,  safe  and 
sound,  at  Charing  Cross,"  Mr.  Herbert  Mont- 
gomery finished  up. 

I  looked  up  again,  this  time  in  sheer  bewilder- 
ment. 

"Liverpool's  in  Lancashire,"  Hilda  explained. 
"I  thought  perhaps  you  were  afraid  we  would 
desert  you  as  soon  as  we  docked." 

I  laughed  in  some  embarrassment. 

"I'm  sure  I  never  before  heard  that  Liverpool 
had  any  connection  with  Lancashire,"  I  ex- 
plained. "But  I  was  thinking  of — something  else." 

"Something  else — how  curious!  Why,  what 
else  is  Lancashire  noted  for  in  America,  pray?" 

They  were  all  three  looking  at  me  in  some  ex- 
citement, for  my  eyes  were  betraying  the  palpita- 
tions I  was  experiencing. 


THE  JOURNEY  255 

"Do  you — does  it  happen  that  you  have  ever 
heard  of  Colmere  Abbey?"  I  asked. 

They  drew  a  deep  breath,  evidently  relieved. 

"Do  we!"  they  chorused  again,  as  they  had  a 
habit  of  doing,  I  learned,  whenever  they  were  sur- 
prised or  amused.  "Well,  rather!" 

"Surely  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  it's  your 
own  home?"  I  demanded,  wondering  if  coin- 
cidence had  gone  so  far,  but  they  shook  their 
heads. 

"No!     Just  next-door  neighbors." 

"Next-door  neighbors  to  the  place,  my  dear 
young  lady,"  Mr.  Montgomery  modified,  glanc- 
ing at  his  wife  rather  reproachfully.  "Not  to 
the — owner  of  Colmere!" 

But  I  scarcely  heard  him.  I  was  trying  to 
place  an  ancient  memory  in  my  mind. 

"'Bannerley  Hall!'" 

"That's  our  place." 

"But  I'm  trying  to  remember  where  I  have 
heard  of  it,"  I  explained.  "Of  course!  They 
all  mentioned  it  at  one  time  or  another." 


256  AMAZING  GRACE 

"They?— Who,  my  dear?  Why  Herbert— 
isn't  this  interesting?" 

"Why,  Washington  Irving — and  Lady  Frances 
Webb — and  Uncle  James  Christie." 

Their  questions  and  my  half-dazed  answers 
were  tumbling  over  one  another. 

"James  Christie — Grace  Christie?"  Mrs.  Mont- 
gomery asked,  connecting  our  names  with  a  de- 
lighted opening  of  her  eyes.  "Why,  my  dear!" 

"How  fortunate  I  was!"  observed  Hilda.  "I 
knew,  though,  from  the  moment  I  saw  the  back 
of  your  head  that  you  were  no  ordinary  American 
tourist!" 

"They  all  'rode  over  to  Bannerley  Hall — the 
day  being  fine !'  "  I  quoted,  from  one  of  the  letters 
written  by  Lady  Frances  Webb. 

"That  was  in  my  great-grandfather's  time," 
Mr.  Montgomery  elucidated.  "And  James 
Christie  was  your " 

"Uncle — with  several  'greats'  between." 

"He  was  even  more  famous  in  England  than 
in  his  own  country,"  Mrs.  Montgomery  threw  itt 


THE  JOURNEY  257 

hastily,  as  she  saw  her  husband's  eyes  twinkling — 
a  sure  sign,  I  afterward  learned,  that  he  was 
going  to  say  something  wicked.  "He  painted  all 
the  notable  people  of  the  age." 

"He  made  many  pictures  of  the  Lady  Frances 
Webb,"  Mr.  Montgomery  succeeded  in  saying, 
after  a  while.  "I  don't  know  whether  it's  well 
known  in  America  or  not,  but — there  was — talk!" 

"Herbert!" 

He  stiffened. 

"It's  true,  my  dear." 

"We  don't  know  whether  it's  true  or  not !"  she 
contended. 

"Well,  it's  tradition!  I'm  sure  Miss  Christie 
wouldn't  want  to  come  to  England  and  not  learn 
all  the  old  legends  she  might." 

Then,  partly  because  I  was  bubbling  over  with 
excitement,  and  partly  because  I  wished  to  ease 
Mrs.  Montgomery's  mind  on  the  subject,  I  began 
telling  them  my  story — from  the  day  of  Aunt 
Patricia's  sudden  whim,  three  days  before  her 
death,  down  to  the  packet  of  faded  letters  lying 


258  AMAZING  GRACE 

at  that  moment  in  the  bottom  of  my  steamer 
trunk. 

"I  thought  perhaps  the  present  owner  of  Col- 
mere  might  let  me  burn  them  there !"  I  explained. 
"I  have  pictured  her  as  a  dear  and  somewhat 
lonely  old  dowager  who  would  take  a  great  deal 
of  interest  in  this  ancient  affair." 

The  three  looked  at  me  intently  for  an  instant, 
but  not  one  of  them  laughed. 

"And  you're  carrying  them  back  to  Colmere — 
instead  of  selling  them!"  Mrs.  Montgomery 
finally  uttered  in  a  little  awed  voice,  as  I  finished 
my  story.  "How  extraordinary!" 

"Very,"  said  Hilda. 

"Most  un-American — if  you'll  not  be  offended 
with  me  for  saying  so,  Miss  Christie,"  Mr.  Mont- 
gomery observed.  Then  he  turned  to  his  wife. 
"My  dear,  only  think  of  Lord  Erskine!"  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"But  I  mustn't !"  she  answered,  with  a  sad  little 
smile.  "I  really  couldn't  think  of  Lord  Erskine 
while  listening  to  anything  so  pretty." 


THE  JOURNEY  259 

I  caught  at  the  name,  curiously. 

"LordErskine?" 

"Yes — the  present  owner  of  the  abbey." 

"But — what  a  beautiful-sounding  name!  Lord 
Erskine!" 

I  looked  at  them  encouragingly,  but  a  hush 
seemed  to  have  fallen  over  their  audible  enthu- 
siasm. Mrs.  Montgomery's  lips  presently  primped 
themselves  up  into  a  signal  for  me  to  come  closer 
to  her  side — where  her  husband  might  not  hear 
her. 

"Lord  Erskine  is,  my  dear — the  most — noto- 
rious old  man  in  England!"  she  pronounced — so 
terribly  that  "And  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on 
his  soul"  naturally  followed.  Her  verdict  was 
final. 

"But  what  has  he  done?"  I  started  to  inquire, 
the  journalistic  tendency  for  the  moment  upper- 
most, but  her  lips  showed  white  lines  of  repres- 
sion. 

"He  is  never  mentioned!"  she  warned  briefly, 
and  I  felt  constrained  to  wish  that  the  same  pun- 


260  AMAZING  GRACE 

ishment  could  be  applied  to  America's  ancient 
sinners. 

"Oh,  so  bad  as  that?" 

She  leaned  closer. 

"My  dear  Miss  Christie,  it  would  be  impossible 
— quite  impossible — to  enumerate  the  peccadillos 
of  that  wretched  old  creature !" 

"Yet  you  women  are  always  ready  to  attempt 
the  impossible !"  her  husband  interposed,  after  his 
noisy  attempt  at  lighting  a  cigarette  had  failed  to 
drown  out  our  voices. 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"Herbert,  I  don't  understand  you,  I'm  sure." 

He  laughed. 

"Well,  I  don't  understand  you,  either!"  he  re- 
plied. "For  twenty  years  now  I  have  noticed 
that  when  two  or  three  women  in  our  part  of  the 
country  are  gathered  together  the  first  thing  they 
say  to  each  other  before  the  men  have  come  into 
the  room  is  that  Lord  Erskine's  recent  escapades 
are  positively  unmentionable — then  they  fly  at 


THE  JOURNEY  261 

each  other's  throats  for  the  privilege  of  retailing 
them." 

She  continued  to  stare  at  him,  steadily  and  with 
no  especial  unfriendliness  in  her  gaze. 

"And  the  men — over  their  wine?"  she  asked 
casually. 

He  squared  his  shoulders. 

"That's  a  very  different  matter,"  he  declared. 
"With  us  he  is  as  honest  and  open  a  diversion  as 
hunting!  The  first  thing  we  say  in  greeting,  if 
we  meet  a  neighbor  on  the  road  is :  'What's  the 
latest  news  from  Lord  Erskine  ?'  " 

Their  eyes  challenged  each  other  humorously 
for  another  moment,  when  Hilda  broke  in. 

"Don't  you  think  we've  given  Miss  Christie  a 
fairly  good  idea  that  she  mustn't  expect  to  be  in- 
vited down  to  Colmere  Abbey — and  that  if  she  is 
invited,  she  mustn't  go?"  she  inquired,  with 
gentle  sarcasm. 

"But,  before  we  get  away  from  the  subject — 
what  of  the  Webb  family?"  I  begged  forlornly. 


262  AMAZING  GRACE 

"Is  there  no  one  living  who  might  take  an  interest 
in  the  story  of  Lady  Frances?" 

I  am  sure  my  voice  was  as  sad  with  disappoint- 
ment as  old  Joe  Jefferson's  used  to  be  when  he'd 
plead:  "Does  no  one  know  Rip  Van  Winkle?" 

"Lord  Erskine's  mother  was  a  Webb,"  Mrs. 
Montgomery  explained. 

"The  one  fact  which  can  be  stated  about  the 
old  gentleman  which  need  not  be  blushed  for," 
her  husband  added.  "In  truth,  he  has  always 
been  vastly  proud  of  his  lineage." 

"About  all  that  he's  ever  had  to  be  proud  of! 
His  own  performances  in  social  and  family  life 
have  been — well,  what  I  have  outlined  to  you.  I 
happened  to  know  details  of  some  earlier  happen- 
ings, and  all  I  can  say  is  that  my  own  attitude 
toward  Lord  Erskine  is  rather  unchristian." 

"But  I  believe  Miss  Christie  was  asking  about 
the  family  history  further  back  than  the  present 
lord,"  Hilda  reminded  them  again,  and  her 
mother  took  the  cue. 

"Ah,  yes!     To  be  sure!     It's  the  failing  of 


THE  JOURNEY  263 

later  years,  my  dear,  to  wish  to  discuss  one's  own 
memories!  But  of  course  your  interest  lies  in 
the  traditions  of  the  novelist." 

"Her  history  has  always  held  a  peculiar  inter- 
est for  me,"  I  replied,  "first,  naturally,  on  account 
of  the  connecting  link — then  on  account  of  the — 
tragic  complication " 

She  nodded  her  head  briskly. 

"Yes — poor  Lady  Frances !  She  was  not  very 
happy,  if  the  ancient  reports  be  true." 

"I  judge  not — from  her  letters." 

"But  her  memory  is  held  in  great  reverence  by 
the  educated  people  around  in  the  country,"  she 
hastened  to  assure  me.  "And  there  is  a  lovely 
memorial  tablet  in  the  church — quite  aside  from 
the  tomb!  A  literary  club  of  London  had  it 
placed  there !" 

"And  every  birthday  there  are  wreaths/'  Mr. 
Montgomery  threw  in,  evidently  hoping  to  make 
it  up  to  me  for  the  disheartening  gossip  of  the 
present  age;  but  my  dreams  were  rapidly  fading 
— and  I  saw  my  chances  for  having  a  bonfire  on 


264  AMAZING  GRACE 

the  library  hearth  at  Colmere  go  up  in  something 
far  more  unsubstantial  than  smoke. 

"Well,  I'm  sure  we've  told  Miss  Christie  quite 
enough  about  our  neighbors — for  a  first  sitting," 
Hilda  Montgomery  broke  in  at  this  point,  as  she 
rose  and  made  a  reckless  suggestion  that  we  go 
out  and  walk  a  little  while.  "/  don't  wish  to 
spend  the  whole  afternoon  talking  about  a  villain- 
ous old  Englishman !"  she  confided,  when  we  were 
well  out  of  ear-shot.  "One  might  spend  the  time 
talking  about  'Americans — don't  you  know  ?' ' 

'"'Americans  ?" 

"Yes — charming,  handsome,  young  Americans ! 
You  remember  the  first  thing  I  told  you  was  that 
I  loved  Americans?" 

"Yes — and  your  father  and  mother  said  they 
did,  too — when  you  weren't  listening." 

She  nodded  her  blond  head,  in  energetic  de- 
light. 

"They  are  trying  to  pretend  that  it  will  be  a 
difficult  matter  to  win  their  consent — but  it 
won't." 


THE  JOURNEY  265 

We  steered  our  course  around  a  group  of  peo- 
ple who  were  disputing,  in  Wabash  tones,  over  a 
game  of  shuffleboard. 

"Consent?"  I  repeated. 

"His  name  is  John  McAdoo  Carpenter — and 
he  lives  at  South  Bend,  Indiana — did  you  ever 
hear  of  the  place?  Did  you  ever  hear  of  him?" 

She  caught  me  by  the  arm  and  we  walked  pre- 
cipitately over  to  the  railing — out  of  the  sound  of 
the  Wabash  tones. 

"If  I  don't  talk  to  somebody  before  that  sun 
goes  down  I'll  jump  right  over  this  railing,"  she 
explained.  "Here's  his  picture!" 

I  took  the  small  blue  leather  case  and  looked  at 
the  honest,  rather  distinguished  face  it  held. 

"But  why  should  your  parents  disapprove  of 
him  I"'  I  asked  in  such  genuine  surprise  that  she 
gave  me  a  smile  which  sealed  forever  our  friend- 
ship. 

"They  don't — really!  It's  just  that  they  like 
to  torment  me  because  he  happened  not  to  be  born 
in  either  New  York  or  Kentucky.  An  English- 


266  AMAZING  GRACE 

man's  knowledge  of  America's  excellence  extends 
no  further  than  that." 

Night  was  coming  on — and  the  sea  looked 
pretty  vast  and  unfriendly.  It  was  the  lonesome 
hour,  when  any  feminine  thing  far  away  from 
home  has  to  wax  either  confidential  or  tearful. 
Hilda  was  determined  to  be  confidential,  and  I 
let  her  have  her  say.  I  went  down,  after  a  while, 
and  dressed  for  dinner — listlessly  and  without 
heart,  but  when  I  went  into  the  dining-room  a 
little  later  and  found  my  place  at  the  table  next 
the  captain's,  the  geniality  of  the  family  atmos- 
phere I  found  there  was  vastly  cheering. 

Mrs.  Montgomery  was  a  rather  magnificent 
little  gray-haired  lady  in  gray  satin  and  diamonds, 
and  her  husband  had  made  the  evolution  from  the 
chrysalis  state  into  that  of  the  butterfly  by  don- 
ning his  dress  clothes  and  putting  up  a  monocle 
in  place  of  the  comfortable  reading  glasses  he  had 
worn  in  the  afternoon.  Hilda  was  wholesome 
and  sweet-looking  but  quite  secondary  to  her  par- 
ents, in  a  soft  blue  gown. 


THE  JOURNEY  267 

The  subject  under  discussion  when  I  arrived 
was  evidently  the  points  of  superiority  of  one 
American  locality  over  another  and  they  took  me 
into  their  confidence  at  once. 

"I  appeal  to  you,  Miss  Christie,  as  an  Amer- 
ican," Mr.  Montgomery  said,  after  the  steward 
who  had  acted  as  my  pilot  was  out  of  hearing. 
"Shouldn't  you  think  now — if  you  didn't  know 
the  difference — shouldn't  you  think  now  that  a 
'South  Bender*  was  a  species  of  acrobat?" 

Then,  try  as  hard  as  I  might  to  keep  all  phy- 
sical signs  of  my  mental  infirmity  from  cropping 
out  in  my  log-book,  the  second  evening  out  found 
an  entry  like  this  showing  itself — written  almost 
entirely  without  effort  on  my  part — like  "spirit 
writing" : 

"To-night  the  orchestra  is  playing  The  Rosary, 
and  I  had  to  get  away  from  all  those  people  in 
the  lounge! 

"I  have  come  down  here — away  from  it,  as  I 
thought,  but,  no!  Those  same  high,  wailing 


268  AMAZING  GRACE 

notes  that  we  heard  that  first  day — that  first  day 
— are  ringing  in  my  ears  this  minute. 

"How  they  sob — sob — sob!  And  over  the 
hours  they  spent  together!  That's  the  foolish 
part  of  it !  I  am  sobbing  over  the  hours  I  might 
have  spent  with  him — and  didn't ! 

"  'Are  like  a  string  of  pearls  to  me!' 

"Bah!  The  hours  I  spent  with  him  wouldn't 
make  pearls  enough  for  a  stick-pin — much  less  a 
rosary ! 

"To  me  Caro  Mio  Ben  is  a  much  more  sensible 
little  love  plaint!  I  wonder  if  he  knows  it?  I 
wonder  if  he  heard  that  girl  singing  in  the  parlor 
the  night  of  the  Kendalls'  dance — and  if  it  still 
rings — rings — rings  in  his  mind  every  time  he 
thinks  of  me?  Or  if  he  ever  thinks  of  me  at 
all?" 

I  have  inserted  this  not  so  much  to  show  you 
how  very  critical  my  case  was,  as  to  demonstrate 
how  valuable  a  thing  is  diversion.  Without  Hilda 
and  the  elder  Montgomery s  I  should  no  doubt 
have  tried  to  emulate  Lady  Frances  Webb  in  the 
feat  of  writing  heart-throbs. 

The  third  day's  observation  was  a  distinct  im- 
provement. 


THE  JOURNEY  269 

"The  men  on  shipboard  are  rather  better  than 
the  women — just  as  they  are  on  dry  land.  True, 
there  are  some  who  have  sold  Chicago  real  estate, 
and  are  now  bent  upon  spending  the  rest  of  their 
lives  running  over  to  Europe  to  criticize  every- 
thing that  they  can  not  buy.  Nothing  is  sacred 
to  them — until  after  they  have  paid  duty  on  it. 
They  revere  and  caress  their  own  Italian  mantle- 
pieces,  their  cases  of  majolica,  and  their  collec- 
tion of  Wedgwood — when  these  are  safely 
decorating  their  lake-shore  homes — but  what  Eu- 
rope keeps  for  herself  they  scorn. 

"  'Bah !  I  don't  see  anything  so  swell  about 
St.  Mark's — nor  St.  Doge's  either!'  I  heard  one 
emit  this  morning.  'But,  old  man,  you  just  ought 
to  see  the  champagne  glasses  I  bought  last  year  in 
Venice.  The  governor  dined  with  me  the  other 
night,  and  he  said '  etc. 

"Then,  there's  another  sort  of  Philistine,  who 
goes  all  over  the  Old  World  eating  his  lunch  off 
places  where  men  have  suffered,  died,  or  invented 
pendulums. 

"  That  confounded  Leaning  Tower  does  feel 
like  it's  wiggling  as  you  go  up,  but  pshaw!  it's 
perfectly  safe!  Why,  I  stayed  on  top  long 
enough  to  eat  three  sandwiches  and  drink  a  bottle 
of  that  red  ink  you  get  for  half  a  dollar  in 
Florence !' 

"This  doesn't  create  much  of  a  stir,  however, 
because  there's  always  one  better, 


270  AMAZING  GRACE 

"  'Nice  little  tower  down  there  in  Pisa — and 
you  really  have  to  have  something  like  that  to 
relieve  your  constitution  of  the  pictorial  strain  in 
Florence — but  you  see,  after  you've  eaten  hard- 
boiled  eggs  on  top  of  Cheops,  climbing  the  Lean- 
ing Tower  is  not  half  so  exciting  as  riding  a 
sapling  was  when  you  were  a  boy!' 

"  'And  oh,  speaking  of  hard-boiled  eggs — have 
you  ever  been  to  Banff,  Mr.  Smith?'  one  of  the 
women  in  the  crowd  speaks  up.  'Yes,  the  scenery 
in  the  Canadian  Rockies  is  all  right,  of  course,  but 
just  to  think  of  having  your  eggs  perfectly  hot 
and  well  done  in  the  waters  of  Banff!' 

"There  are  other  women  on  board,  however, 
whose  thoughts  are  not  on  food.  They  are  more 
amusing  by  far  to  watch  than  the  innocent  crea- 
tures who  love  Banff.  They  manage  to  stay  well 
out  of  view  by  strong  daylight,  then  come  into 
the  lounge  at  night,  dressed  in  plumes  and  dia- 
monds like  Cinderella's  stepsisters,  and  select  the 
husbands  of  sea-sick  wives  to  ask  advice  about 
focusing  a  kodak  or  going  to  Gibraltar  to  buy  a 
mandarin  coat! 

"But,  as  I  have  said,  the  men  for  the  greater 
part  are  much  more  interesting  than  the  women — 
still  I  have  never  aspired  to  a  nautical  flirtation, 
for  a  month  after  one  is  past  you  can't  recall  the 
principal's  name.  You  do  well  if  you  can  re- 
member his  nationality." 


THE  JOURNEY  271 

The  entry  broke  off  with  this  piece  of  sarcasm, 
which,  after  all,  is  actual  truth.  A  friend  of 
mine  had  such  an  experience.  A  month  after  a 
bitter  parting  on  a  moonlit  deck  one  night  she 
came  face  to  face  with  the  absent  one  in  a  church 
in  Rome — and  all  she  could  stammer  was:  "Oh 
— you  Canadian!" 

The  fourth  day — after  the  last  vestige  of  the 
gulls  had  been  left  behind — I  began  to  grow  im- 
patient. The  "meanwhile"  aspect  of  life  in  gen- 
eral was  beginning  to  press  down. 

"I  wish  mother  had  named  me  'Patience,'  for 
I  love  a  joke!"  I  wrote  frantically — with  the 
same  feeling  of  suffocation  which  caused  Lady 
Frances  Webb  to  rush  out  to  the  rose  garden 
where  the  sun-dial  stood,  to  keep  from  hearing 
the  clock  tick. 

"To  me,  the  inertia  which  a  woman  is  supposed 
to  exhibit  is  the  hardest  part  of  her  whole  earthly 
task!  And  I  don't  know  what  it's  for,  either, 
unless  to  prepare  her  for  a  future  incarnation  into 
a  camel ! 

"Yet,  if  you're  a  woman,  you  just  must  stay 
still  and  let  your  heart's  desire  slip  through  your 


272  AMAZING  GRACE 

fingers — even  if  you  have  to  lock  yourself  up  into 
your  bedroom  closet  to  accomplish  it !" 

And  yet,  even  as  I  wrote,  I  wondered  what  I'd 
do  when  I  should  be  back  in  America.  Somehow, 
I  didn't  exactly  fancy  myself  getting  a  ticket 
home  from  New  York  with  stop-over  privileges 
at  Pittsburgh — where  I  could  spend  an  exciting 
time  looking  up  a  city  directory ! 

And  so  the  remaining  days  of  the  voyage 
passed.  The  Montgomery  family  planned  to 
have  me  go  home  with  them,  after  a  day  in  Lon- 
don, and  declared  that  I  could  find  as  much  inter- 
esting news  to  write  home  for  the  Herald  from 
Lancashire  as  from  any  other  portion  of  the 
United  Kingdom,  since  one  never  knew  where 
a  fire  would  be  started  or  a  bomb  discovered 
through  the  playful  antics  of  the  women  who 
have  changed  the  "clinging"  sex  into  the  fling- 
ing sex;  and  I  had  accepted  fervently — when,  on 
the  trip  from  Liverpool  down  to  London,  these 
arrangements  were  abruptly  upset. 

We  were  a  little  late  in  landing,  and  rushed 


THE  JOURNEY  273 

straight  to  the  train,  where  a  tea-basket,  operated 
in  the  compartment  which  we  had  to  ourselves, 
was  giving  me  the  assurance  that  surely,  next  to 
a  hayloft  on  a  rainy  morning,  a  private  compart- 
ment in  a  British  train  is  the  coziest  spot  on  the 
face  of  the  earth,  when  Mr.  Montgomery  sud- 
denly dropped  the  sheet  of  newspaper  he  had  been 
eagerly  scanning. 

"My  word!"  he  said. 

His  exclamation  was  so  insistent  that  I  im- 
mediately felt  in  my  pocket  to  see  if  I  had  his 
word,  and  his  wife  glanced  up  from  the  lamp 
which  she  was  handling  lovingly. 

"Yes,  Herbert?" 

"But  I  say — Lord  Erskine  is  dead!" 

"Herbert!" 

Her  tone  was  accusing,  but  her  husband 
nodded,  with  a  pleased  look  of  assurance. 

"You  may  read  it  for  yourself,  I'm  sure — if 
you  don't  believe  me!" 

He  handed  the  paper  over  to  her,  and  she  re- 
ceived it  gingerly,  after  looking  to  the  tea-basket 


274  AMAZING  GRACE 

with  a  housewifely  air,  and  placing  the  lamp  quite 
to  one  side,  out  of  harm's  way.  Then  she  turned 
to  the  article  indicated,  reading  slowly,  while  her 
daughter  looked  over  her  shoulder. 

"Why,  he's  been  dead!" 

She  glanced  up  suddenly,  toward  me,  with  a 
shamefaced  look. 

"He  was  dead  at  the  very  time  you  were  telling 
Grace  all  those  atrocious  things  about  him!" 
Hilda  reminded  her,  smiling  at  the  look  of  dis- 
comfiture which  had  crept  over  the  kindly, 
wrinkled  little  face. 

"Yes !     It's — extraordinary !" 

"And  it  makes  us  both  feel — a  little  uncomfort- 
able, eh?" 

Her  husband's  tone  was  tormenting,  but  she 
turned  on  him  seriously. 

"I'm  sure,  Herbert,  dear,  you  said  quite  as 
much  as  I  did!"  she  declared,  evidently  finding 
relief  in  the  knowledge.  "Still — this  news  does 
rather  make  one — think." 

The  girl  rattled  the  sheet  of  paper  excitedly. 


THE  JOURNEY  275 

"I'm  thinking!"  she  announced,  her  eyes  wide. 
"I'm  thinking  of  Colmere  Abbey !  What  a  chance 
for  some  rich  decent  American !  Somebody  that 
one  could  easily  endure,  you  understand !" 

"Hilda!" 

She  waved  aside  the  reprimand. 

"Grace  understands  me — and  what  I  think  of 
Americans,"  she  answered  quickly.  "But, 
mother,  this  is  a  problem!  What  Englishman 
would  buy  the  place — with  its  haunting  tales — 
and  monstrous  value?  Nobody  would  be  rich 
enough  except  one  of  the  millionaires  who  owns 
a  dozen  homes  already.  And  the  next-of-kin  will 
inherit  nothing  along  with  the  place  to  keep  it 
up!" 

''Hilda !  This  is  neither  respectful  nor  neigh- 
borly," her  mother  remonstrated  again,  then  she 
turned  to  her  husband.  "Shall  you  write  to  the 
new  Lord  Erskine  from  London,  Herbert?" 

Her  tone  was  one  of  foregone  conclusion,  con- 
ventional enough,  but  very  kindly,  and  her  hus- 
band nodded  obediently. 


276  AMAZING  GRACE 

"Oh,  to  be  sure,  my  dear,"  he  chirruped  in  a 
dutiful  way.  "I  shall  wire  his  lawyers  immedi- 
ately and " 

"And  ask  for  the  pleasure  of  putting  him  up 
while  he's  in  the  country?" 

"Certainly!     Certainly!" 

"It  will  be  unpleasant — this  period  of  mourn- 
ing that  we  shall  have  to  affect — for  his  sake," 
she  went  on,  "but  it  is  out  of  respect  for  the 
neighborly  proprieties,  after  all.'* 

Mrs.  Montgomery  was  looking  at  us  all  in  turn, 
in  some  little  perplexity,  when  a  sudden  recollec- 
tion came  to  me  of  how  difficult  it  is  sometimes  to 
amalgamate  guests — no  matter  how  many  rooms 
there  are  to  one's  house. 

"And  I'll  defer  my  visit  until  later?"  I  sug- 
gested. 

She  instantly  smiled  across  at  me. 

"Just  a  few  days — if  you  don't  mind,  dear," 
she  said.  "I  had  planned  so  many  delightful 
things  for  your  stay — and  I  know  that  you 
wouldn't  enjoy  the  period  of  mourning." 


THE  JOURNEY  277 

"Not  so  much  as  you  would  if  you  had  known 
Lord  Erskine!"  her  husband  put  in  wickedly. 
"And  I'm  determined  to  mourn  only  the  briefest 
time  possible." 

"Not  an  hour  later  than  Saturday!"  his  wife 
promised  generously — and  a  few  hours  after- 
ward when  they  put  me  down  at  Charing  Cross 
and  sent  me  whirling  away  to  a  lady-like  hotel  in 
Bloomsbury,  it  was  with  spoken,  written  and 
pantomime  directions  as  to  which  trains,  and 
what-timed  trains — and  how  many  trains  I  was 
.to  take  toward  the  end  of  the  week  to  get  to 
Bannerley. 

In  the  meanwhile  I  knuckled  down  devotedly 
to  London — and  sent  my  deductions  home  across 
seas,  in  neatly  typed  packets,  to  The  Oldburgh 
Herald. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

LONDON 

WHAT  can't  be  appreciated  can  always  be 
ridiculed — whether  it's  Old  Masters,  new 
waltzes,  or  a  wife's  Easter  bonnet — and  this  is  the 
reason  we  have  always  had  such  reams  of  jour- 
nalistic "fun"  at  the  expense  of  the  broad  English 
"a"  and  the  narrow  English  view. 

For  my  part,  I  consider  that — next  to  the 
French  in  New  Orleans — the  English  in  England 
are  the  golden-ruliest  people  to  be  found  in  pro- 
fane history. 

You'll  find  that  they're  "insular"  only  when 
they're  traveling  off  their  dear  island — and  it's 
homesickness,  after  all,  which  makes  them  so  dis- 
agreeably arrogant. 

To  be  sure,  the  Frenchman  in  New  Orleans 
278 


LONDON  279 

will,  if  you  ask  him  for  a  word  of  direction  to- 
ward the  Old  Absinthe  House,  take  you  into  his 
private  office,  draw  for  you  a  diagram  of  the 
whole  city,  advise  you  at  length  not  to  go  unes- 
corted into  the  Market,  then  follow  you  to  the 
door  with  the  final  warning:  "And  it  would  be 
well  for  you  to  observe  a  certain  degree  of  cau- 
tion, my  dear  young  lady,  for  our  city  is  filled 
with  wickedness,  and  your  eyes  are — pardon? — 
most  charming!" 

This  is  delightful,  of  course,  and  by  far  the 
most  romantic  thing  in  the  way  of  adventure 
America  has  to  offer,  but  rambling  around  Lon- 
don presents  a  dearer  and  more  home-like  charm. 

The  Englishman  who  directs  you  to  a  church, 
or  a  university  square,  stops  to  say  nothing  about 
your  eyes — much  less  would  he  mention  the  exist- 
ence of  good  and  evil — but  he  points  out  to  you 
the  tomb,  or  chained  Bible,  or  famous  man's  pew 
you  are  seeking,  then  glides  modestly  away  be- 
fore you've  had  time  to  say:  "It's  awfully  good 
of  you  to  take  all  this  trouble  for  a  stranger!" 


280  AMAZING  GRACE 

But  the  truth  of  the  matter  is  that  you  don't 
in  the  least  feel  yourself  a  stranger  in  London, 
and  you  like  your  kindly  Englishman  so  cordially 
that  you  secretly  resolve  to  put  a  muzzle  on  your 
own  particular  cannon  cracker  the  next  Fourth  of 
July. 

The  shilling  guide-books  speak  of  London  as 
the  "gray  old  grandmother  of  cities,"  meaning 
thereby  to  call  attention  to  her  upstart  progeny 
across  the  seas,  but  to  my  mind  the  title  of  grand- 
mother is  much  more  applicable  on  account  of  the 
joyous  surprises  she  has  shut  away  in  dark  closets. 

One  of  the  main  pleasures  of  a  visit  to  any 
grandmother  is  the  gift  of  treasure  which  she  is 
likely  to  call  forth  mysteriously  from  some 
tightly-closed  cupboard  and  place  in  your  hands 
for  your  own  exclusive  possession — and  certainly 
this  old  dingy  city  outgrannies  granny  when  it 
comes  to  that. 

In  the  dingiest  little  book-stall  imaginable, 
lighted  by  a  candle  and  tended  by  a  ragged-cuffed 
gentleman  with  a  passion  for  Keats,  you  may  find 


LONDON  281 

the  very  edition  of  something  that  college  profes- 
sors in  your  native  town  are  offering  half  a  year's 
salary  for!  You  buy  it  for  five  dollars — which 
seems  much  more  insignificant  when  spoken  of 
by  the  pound — then  run  out  and  hail  the  nearest 
cab,  offering  the  chauffeur  an  additional  shilling 
to  get  you  out  of  the  neighborhood  in  ten  seconds ! 
Your  heart  is  thumping  in  guilty  fear  that  the 
ragged-cuffed  gentleman  with  the  passion  for 
Keats  may  discover  his  mistake  and  run  after  you 
to  demand  his  treasure  back ! 

You  make  a  similar  escape,  a  few  hours  later, 
with  a  Wedgwood  tea-caddy,  whose  delicate 
color  the  pottery  has  never  been  able  to  duplicate 
— and  with  Sheffield  plate  your  suit-case  runneth 
over ! 

And  your  emotions  while  doing  all  this  ?  Why, 
you've  never  before  known  what  "calm  content" 
could  mean. 

In  the  first  place,  you  never  feel  countrified  and 
unpopular  in  London,  as  you  do  in  New  York. 
Your  clothes  have  a  way  of  brightening  up  and 


282  AMAZING  GRACE 

looking  noticeably  smart  as  if  they'd  just  enjoyed 
a  sojourn  at  the  dry  cleaner's — and  everybody 
you  meet  seems  to  care  particularly  for  Amer- 
icans. You  are  at  home  there — not  merely  with 
the  at-home  feeling  which  a  good  hotel  and  agree- 
able society  give — but  there's  a  feeling  of  satis- 
faction much  deeper  than  this.  Something  in 
you,  which  has  always  known  and  loved  England, 
is  seeing  familiar  faces  again — the  something 
which  made  you  strain  your  eyes  over  Mother 
Goose  by  firelight  years  ago,  and  thrill  over 
Ivanhoe  and  anything  which  held  the  name  "Sher- 
wood Forest"  on  its  printed  page.  It's  something 
congenial — or  prenatal — who  knows? 

(Oh  yes!  I  answer  very  readily  "Present!" 
when  any  one  calls:  "Anglomaniac!") 

It  was  only  natural  that  I  should  let  my  adora- 
tion for  Great  Britain  show  through  in  the  copy 
I  sent  home  to  The  Oldburgh  Herald,  and  as  if 
to  prove  that  honesty  is  the  best  policy,  I  received 
a  letter  of  praise  from  Captain  Macauley. 


LONDON  283 

"Anybody  can  run  a  foreign  country  down," 
he  wrote,  "but  you've  proved  that  you're  original 
by  praising  one!  Stay  there  as  long -as  you  have 
an  English  adjective  left  to  go  upon,  then  forget 
your  sorrows,  chase  away  down  to  Italy  and  show 
us  what  you  can  do  with  'bellissimo.' ' 

But  I  didn't  do  this,  for  the  letter  overtook  me 
only  after  I  had  reached  Bannerley,  and  was  see- 
ing things  which  I  could  hope  for  no  words,  either 
English  or  Italian,  to  describe. 

I  left  London  on  Friday — which  I  ought  to 
have  had  better  sense  than  to  do,  having  been 
properly  brought  up  by  a  black  mammy — hoping 
to  reach  the  home  of  my  shipboard  friends  early 
enough  Saturday  morning  to  hear  the  pigeons 
coo  under  the  eaves  of  Bannerley  Hall.  All  my 
life  I  had  cherished  an  ambition  to  hear  pigeons 
coo  under  eaves  of  an  ancestral  place,  and  with 
this  thought  uppermost  in  my  heart,  I  packed  my 
suit-case  and  drove  to  Paddington  Station.  I 
received  my  first  damper  at  the  ticket  window. 


284  AMAZING  GRACE 

"Bannerley?"  the  agent  repeated,  looking  at 
me  with  a  shade  of  pity,  as  I  mentioned  my  desti- 
nation. "Bannerley  ?" 

"Certainly,  Bannerley!"  I  insisted,  with  some 
effort  toward  a  dignified  bearing,  but  the  first 
glance  at  his  doubtful  face  caused  my  spirits  to 
sink.  Being  by  nature  an  extremist,  they  sank  to 
the  bottom.  All  in  a  twinkling  the  cooing  of 
pigeons  in  my  mental  picture  was  changed  to  the 
croaking  of  ravens.  "It's  not  so  very  difficult 
to  get  to  Bannerley,  is  it  ?" 

He  scratched  his  head. 

"No-o — not  in  a  general  way,  miss,  but  there 
ain't  no  telling  when  you'll  get  there." 

I  drew  back,  more  hurt  than  angry. 

"But  my  friends  have  already  warned  me  that 
I  shall  have  to  change  at  Leamington — and  Man- 
chester— and  Oldham — and " 

"Can't  help  that!"  he  exclaimed  heartlessly, 
looking  over  my  shoulder  at  the  line  of  waiting 
tourists.  "Since  the  coal  strike,  trains  on  them 


LONDON  285 

side-lines  has  been  as  scarce  and  irregular  as  a 
youngster's  teeth  at  shedding  time." 

I  tried  to  smile  politely,  but  another  glance  at 
his  face  showed  me  that  he  wasn't  expecting  such 
an  act  of  supererogation. 

"Getting  off  into  the  unbeaten  paths  sounds 
pretty  enough  in  a  guide-book,"  he  kept  on  hastily, 
"but  the  first  thing  you  do  when  you  meet  an  un- 
beaten path  is  to  want  to  beat  it !" 

I  faded  out  of  the  line  and  let  my  successor 
take  my  place. 

"He's  just  an  old  grouch!"  I  told  myself  con- 
solingly, as  I  got  a  seat  next  a  window.  "Nothing 
really  terrible  can  befall  you  when  traveling — if 
you've  got  a  Masonic  pin  on  your  coat!" 

(One  of  my  Christie  relations  had  thus  dec- 
orated me  and  assured  me.) 

Then  I  forgot  all  about  his  gloomy  warnings, 
for  the  train  rumbled  across  a  thousand  street 
crossings — then  out  into  all  the  sheep  pastures  in 
the  civilized  world,  and — it  was  summer ! 


286  AMAZING  GRACE 

"This  country  must  be  Kent!"  I  mused,  not 
geographically,  but  esthetically  certain — as  soft 
feathery  green  broke  off  occasionally  into  a 
pollard-trimmed  swamp — then  came  up  again  a 
little  later  into  a  gentle,  sheep-dotted  rise.  And 
I  remembered  the  Duchess  once  more — "A  stal- 
wart, fair-haired  lover,  and  a  dozen  Kentish 
lanes!" 

I  have  lived  to  learn  that  this  is  common  to 
Americans  who  have  been  brought  up  to  under- 
stand that  Kent  is  the  garden-spot  of  England. 
No  matter  at  which  point  along  the  entire  coast- 
line they  may  board  a  train,  their  first  conviction 
upon  seeing  suburban  scenery  is  that  it  must  be 
Kent!  (I  say  "suburban"  advisedly,  for  none  of 
it  is  far  enough  away  from  the  other  to  be  rural.) 

So  my  journey  through  an  elongated  and  rather 
circuitous  Kent  kept  my  mind  away  from  the 
croakings  of  the  ticket  seller  at  Paddington — 
until  the  next  morning  at  daybreak,  when  I  found 
myself  put  down  with  mournful  ceremony  at  a 


LONDON  287 

little  wayside  station  which  ought  to  have  been 
labeled  "St.  Helena." 

"Just  as  sorry  as  you  are,  miss,  but  this  is  your 
nearest  hope  for  a  train  to  Bannerley!"  the  guard 
said,  by  way  of  an  appropriate  farewell,  so  off  I 
got. 

"But  this  place  is  surely  named  St.  Helena,"  I 
groaned,  as  I  looked  about  me,  yet  the  only  actual 
similarity  was  in  the  matter  of  its  being  entirely 
surrounded.  The  island  entirely  surrounded  by 
water,  of  course — this  station  entirely  surrounded 
by  land.  I  believe  that  I  had  never  before  in  my 
life  seen  such  a  stretch  of  unimproved  property! 

"  'The  woods  and  I — and  their  infinite  call,'  "  I 
quoted,  as  I  looked  out  somewhat  shamefacedly 
across  the  acres.  For  it  was  exactly  the  kind  of 
place  I  had  always  longed  to  possess  for  my  very 
own — yet  here  I  had  arrived  at  it,  and  might,  for 
all  I  knew  to  the  contrary,  take  possession  of  it 
by  right  of  discovery — yet  I  was  feeling  lonely 
and  resentful  at  the  very  start. 


288  AMAZING  GRACE 

Then  I  remembered  Robinson  Crusoe  and  took 
heart,  straining  my  eyes  in  hope  of  a  sail,  but 
nowhere  was  there  a  human  face  to  be  seen,  nor 
sign  of  life.  Not  even  a  freight  car  stood  drearily 
on  a  side-track — and,  as  you  know,  you  have  to  be 
very  far  away  from  the  center  of  things  not  to 
find  a  freight  car !  None  was  here,  however,  for 
there  wasn't  a  side-track  for  it  to  stand  upon — the 
main  line  running  in  two  shining  threads  far 
away  toward  Ireland. 

The  only  moving  bodies  visible  were  a  paper 
sack  being  blown  gently  down  the  track,  a  blue 
fly  buzzing  around  a  blackened  banana  peeling 
and  a  rook  cawing  overhead.  I  looked  up  at  the 
rook  and  smiled  philosophically. 

"I  anticipated  a  'coo/  then  apprehended  a 
'croak' — what  I  get  is  a  happy  compromise,  a 
'caw/  "  I  said,  and  I  find  that  things  usually  turn 
out  this  way  in  the  great  journey  of  life.  Noth- 
ing is  ever  so  good,  nor  so  bad,  as  you  think  it's 
going  to  be  when  you're  standing  at  the  ticket 
window.  The  great  anticipator  is  also  a  great 


LONDON  289 

apprehender — therefore  realization  is  bound  to 
be  a  relief,  j 

Then,  as  if  in  reward  of  my  optimism,  I  began 
to  scent  the  odor  of  escaping  coffee. 

"It  is  inhabited !"  I  cried. 

Springing  up,  I  darted  around  to  the  other  side 
of  the  station,  and  there,  in  a  clump  of  trees, 
lying  snug  and  humane-looking  in  the  morning 
light,  was  a  tiny  cottage.  I  waited,  and  presently 
there  issued  from  the  doorway  a  man — wiping 
his  mouth  reminiscently. 

He  espied  me  at  once  and  came  up,  cap  in  hand. 

"Was  you  wanting  something,  miss?"  he  asked. 

"A  train,"  I  replied,  trying  to  sound  inconse- 
quential with  the  lordliness  that  comes  of  intense 
disgust.  "I  have  a  ticket  to  Bannerley — and  I 
have  friends  there  waiting!" 

The  man  dared  to  smile. 

"Since  the  coal  strike  that's  mostly  what  folks 
does,  miss,"  he  explained. 

There  was  a  moment  of  strained  silence,  which 
was  broken  by  the  appearance  of  a  young  boy — 


2QO  AMAZING  GRACE 

an  eerie  creature  who  had  seemed  to  glide  straight 
out  of  the  eastern  horizon  on  a  bicycle.  The 
station-master  turned  to  him. 

"Take  this  here  parcel  up  to  Lord  Erskine — 
and  be  quicker  than  you  was  yesterday!"  he  said. 

The  boy's  face  and  mine  changed  simulta- 
neously, his  brightening,  mine  paling. 

"Lord  Erskine!"  I  cried,  a  little  ghostly  feel- 
ing of  fear  stealing  over  me — for  my  American 
instincts  failed  to  grasp  the  rapidity  with  which 
dead  men's  shoes  can  be  snatched  off  and  fitted 
with  new  rubber  heels  in  England — "Lord 
Erskine  is  dead." 

The  little  messenger  boy  looked  at  me  pityingly. 

"  'E  wuz"  he  explained,  "but  'e  ain't  now !" 

"And — and  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  this  is 
the  station  for  Colmere  Abbey?"  I  demanded, 
turning  again  to  the  man. 

"Yes,  miss." 

He  tried  Hard  not  to  look  supercilious,  but 
there,  six  feet  above  my  head,  was  the  name 
"Colmere"  in  faded  yellow  letters  against  the 


LONDON  291 

black  background  of  the  sign-board.  And  I  had 
always  believed  in  psychic  warnings! 

"I — I  hadn't  thought  to  look  at  the  sign-board," 
I  endeavored  to  explain.  "It  seems  that  it  doesn't 
matter  what  your  station  is,  for  you're  as  far 
away  from  your  destination  at  one  place  as  at 
another — during  the  coal  strike!  You  think  I 
can't  get  a  train  to  Bannerley  until " 

"Perhaps  to-night — perhaps  not  until  to- 
morrow morning,"  he  answered  with  cruel  frank- 
ness, and  I  knew  from  heresay  that  trains  did 
occasionally  wander,  comet- fashion,  out  of  their 
orbit,  and  come  through  stations  at  unexpected 
moments.  "Still,  there's  a  railroad  hotel  about  a 
mile  down  the  track." 

"A  railroad  hotel?" 

"Where  the  men  get  their  meals — the  guards 
and  porters!" 

My  spirits  sank. 

"That  old  kill-joy  at  Paddington  knew  what  he 
was  talking  about !"  I  said  to  myself — then  aloud : 
"But,  couldn't  I  get  a  carriage,  or  a " 


292  AMAZING  GRACE 

He  shook  his  head. 

"We  mostly  uses  bicycles  around  here — when 
we  don't  walk,"  he  explained. 

"But  I  must  get  to  Bannerley !"  I  burst  out  in 
desperation.  "And  I  am  a  first-rate  walker! 
How  far  is  it?" 

I  was  beginning  to  realize  that  the  adventure 
might  make  good  copy,  headed:  "Wonderful 
Pedestrian  Journey  through  Historic  Lancashire." 
Many  a  slighter  incident  has  called  forth  heavier 
head-lines. 

"Walk?" 

"Certainly— then  take  up  the  matter  with  the 
railroad  company  in  Glasgow,  just  before  I  sail 
for  home !" 

My  terrible  manner  caused  him  to  look  me  over, 
quickly. 

"Was  you  wanting  to  get  to  the  village — or  the 
hall?"  he  asked,  evidently  impressed  by  my 
severity,  and  my  heart  softened. 

"To  the  hall,"  I  answered.  "Mrs.  Mont- 
gomery is  expecting  me." 


LONDON  293 

He  tried  hard  not  to  show  that  he  was  im- 
pressed, but  he  failed.  Evidently  Mrs.  Mont- 
gomery was  a  great  personage,  and  I  took  on  a 
tinge  of  reflected  glory  not  to  be  entirely  ignored. 

"The  hall  is  a  mile  from  the  village — and  the 
village  is  three  miles  from  here,"  he  explained 
gently.  "Of  course,  there's  short  cuts,  if  a  body 
knows  'em — but  for  a  lady  like  you " 

The  click  of  the  telegraph  instrument  clamored 
for  his  attention,  so  he  reluctantly  left  me.  I  re- 
mained outside,  listening  to  the  caw  of  the  rook. 
Presently  he  came  out  again. 

"There  will  be  a  train  through  here  pretty  soon 
— but  it's  coming  from  the  direction  of  Banner- 
ley,  instead  of  going  toward  there — still " 

"Still,  it  will  give  us  occasion  to  hope  for  better 
things  later  on,"  I  answered  cheerfully.  "And 
it  has  occurred  to  me  that  I  might  while  away  a 
portion  of  the  morning  by  walking  up  to  the 
gates  of  Colmere  Abbey.  That  boy  went  in  this 
direction,  didn't  he?" 

"Not  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  miss — down  in  this 


294  AMAZING  GRACE 

direction,"  he  assured  me.  "Just  follow  this 
road,  and  you'll  find  the  lodge  in  a  clump  of 
trees." 

The  "May"  hedges  were  glistening  with  the 
early  sunbeams,  and  as  I  walked  down  the  rail- 
road track  the  distance  seemed  quite  a  good  deal 
short  of  the  quarter  of  a  mile  mentioned.  I 
found  the  clump  of  trees  indicated — then  a  small 
gray  building.  My  heart  bounded,  and  I  rubbed 
my  eyes  to  make  sure  that  I  was  awake. 

"Is  this  the  entrance  to  Colmere  Abbey?"  I 
asked  of  the  boy  on  the  bicycle,  who  was  turning 
out  of  the  gate  at  that  moment. 

"This  is  one  of  the  lodges — but  not  the  grand 
one,  madam !"  he  answered  anxiously. 

"Oh,  indeed?  But  one  can  get  to  the  park 
through  this  gate?"  I  persisted. 

"Oh,  yes,  madam." 

He  showed  an  inclination  to  act  as  my  esquire, 
but  I  got  rid  of  him  by  promising  him  sixpence  if 
he  would  take  care  of  my  bag  until  I  returned  to 
the  station — then  I  crossed  the  greasy  railroad 


LONDON  295 

track  and  entered  the  shade  of  the  trees.  It  was 
far  from  being  my  ideal  entree  into  the  old  house 
of  my  heart's  desire,  but  it  was  something  of  an 
adventure — until  I  reached  the  gates.  There  I 
was  halted. 

"Yes,  miss — if  you  please?" 

It  was  an  acid  voice,  and  I  looked  at  the  door- 
way of  the  house,  out  of  which  an  old  woman 
was  issuing.  She  was  garbed  in  profound  black. 

"I  want  to  get  in — to  see  the  grounds  of  the 
abbey,"  I  explained  casually,  but  she  was  not  to 
be  overwhelmed  by  any  airy  nonchalance.  She 
shook  her  head. 

"But  that  can't  be!" 

The  smile  which  accompanied  this  informa- 
tion was  almost  gleeful. 

"No?    But  why  not?" 

She  looked  at  me  pityingly. 

"Didn't  you  know  we  was  in  mourning?"  she 
demanded,  bristling  with  importance. 

I  instantly  made  a  penitent  face,  then  glanced 
appreciatively  at  her  gown,  but  she  gave  no  evi- 


296  AMAZING  GRACE 

dence  of  being  a  physiognomist.  She  failed  to 
take  note  of  my  contrite  expression. 

"You  can't  go  sight-seeing  in  here!"  she  said. 

"Not  even  a  little  way?" 

I  accompanied  this  plea  by  the  display  of  a 
shining  half-crown,  which  I  carried  in  my  glove 
for  emergency.  That's  one  good  thing  about 
being  away  from  the  United  States — you  don't 
have  to  regard  money  so  tenderly.  You  realize 
that  shillings  and  francs  and  lire  were  made  to 
spend  for  souvenirs  and  service,  but  dollars — ugh ! 
They  were  made  to  put  in  the  bank!  So  I 
twinkled  this  ever-ready  half-crown  temptingly 
in  the  morning  light,  but  she  shook  her  head 
again. 

"While  we  was  in  mourning?"  she  demanded, 
with  a  gasp  of  outraged  propriety.  "Why — 
wha'ud  the  minister  say?" 

At  this  I  turned  away  sadly — for  I  had  been 
in  England  long  enough  to  know  there's  never 
any  use  trying  to  surmise  what  the  minister  'ud 
say! 


LONDON  297 

"Just  the  same,  you'd  make  a  dandy  old  servant 
— and  I'm  a  great  mind  to  buy  you  and  put  you  in 
my  suit-case,  along  with  the  Sheffield  candle- 
sticks," I  thought,  as  I  made  my  way  back  to  the 
station. 

During  my  absence  a  train  had  come  clattering 
in — and  it  stood  stock-still  now,  while  the 
engineer  and  the  station-master  held  a  long  con- 
versation over  a  basket  of  homing  pigeons  which 
had  been  deposited  upon  the  platform.  I  viewed 
the  locomotive  listlessly  enough — the  walk  having  . 
taken  some  of  my  former  impatient  energy  away, 
but  my  interest  was  aroused  as  I  came  upon  the 
platform  by  the  appearance  of  a  servant  in  livery, 
disentangling  from  one  of  the  compartments  a 
suit-case  and  leather  hat-box. 

The  man's  back  was  toward  me,  as  he  struggled 
to  lift  his  burden  high  above  the  precious  basket 
of  pigeons  which  was  usurping  place  and  atten- 
tion, but  the  look  of  the  traveling  paraphernalia 
held  my  eye  for  a  moment. 

"Could  it  belong  to  an  American  ?"  I  mused. 


298  AMAZING  GRACE 

The  servant  deposited  the  cases  on  the  plat- 
form, then  turned,  still  with  his  back  toward  me, 
and  took  part  in  the  lively  pigeon  argument.  I 
looked  at  the  beautiful  smoothness  of  the  leather. 

"Of  course  they're  American!"  I  decided,  for 
you  must  know  that  nearly  any  Englishman's 
luggage  would  compare  unfavorably  with  the 
bags  Aunt  Jemima  brings  with  her  when  she 
comes  up  to  the  city  for  a  week's  mortification  to 
her  nephews. 

"Never  judge  an  Englishman  by  the  luggage 
he  lugs !"  is  only  a  fair  act  of  discretion. 

I  crossed  the  platform,  partly  to  get  away  from 
the  mournful  sounds  emanating  from  the  wicker 
basket,  and  then,  at  the  door  of  the  little  station 
I  was  arrested  by  another  sound.  It  was  a  sound 
which  had  certainly  not  been  there  when  I  had 
left,  half  an  hour  before!  I  halted — wondering 
if  there  really  could  be  anything  in  psychic  warn- 
ings! 

Inside  the  dingy  little  room  some  one  was 
whistling !  The  melody  was  falling  upon  the  air 


LONDON  299 

with  a  certain  softness  which,  however,  did  not 
conceal  its  suppressed  vehemence — and  the  tune 
was  Cafo  Mio  Ben! 

"Anybody  has  a  right  to  whistle  it!"  I  told 
myself  savagely,  but  I  still  hesitated — my  heart 
standing  still  from  the  mere  force  of  the  hypothe- 
sis. After  a  moment  it  began  beating  again,  as  if 
to  make  up  for  lost  time. 

The  whistling  man  inside  left  off  his  music — 
then  I  heard  his  footsteps  tramping  impatiently 
across  the  bare  wooden  floor.  He  finally  came 
to  the  door  and  looked  out.  I  glanced  up,  and 
our  eyes  met!  It  was  Caro  Mio  Ben!  It  was 
Caro  Mio  Ben! 

"Well?"  he  said. 

He  stood  perfectly  still  for  half  a  minute  it 
seemed — making  no  effort  toward  a  civilized 
greeting. 

"Well !"  I  responded — as  soon  as  I  could. 

"This  is  queer,  isn't  it?" 

I  looked  at  him. 

"  'Queer  ?'  "  I  managed  to  repeat — that  is,  I 


300  AMAZING  GRACE 

heard  the  word  escaping  past  the  tightening 
muscles  of  my  throat.  "Queer!" 

"Most  extraordinary !" 

"I  should — I  think  I  should  like  to  sit  down !" 
I  decided,  as  he  continued  to  stand  staring  at  me, 
and  I  suddenly  realized  that  I  was  very  tired. 

He  moved  aside. 

"By  all  means!  Come  in  and  sit  down,  Miss 
Christie.  This  station  fellow  here  tells  me  that 
you  have  been  disappointed  in  your  train." 

"I  have,"  I  answered. 

I  might  have  added  that  I  had  been  disap- 
pointed in  everything  most  important  in  life,  as 
well — but  his  own  face  was  wearing  such  an  ex- 
pression of  calm  serenity  that  I  was  soothed  as  I 
looked  at  it. 

"That's  quite  a  problem  here  in  England  just 
now,"  he  observed  politely. 

"So  I  have  been  informed." 

After  this,  conversation  flagged,  until  the 
silence  made  me  nervous. 

"I  should  think  we  ought  to  be  asking  each 


LONDON  301 

other — questions!"  I  suggested,  trying  to  bring 
him  to  a  realization  of  the  necessary  formalities, 
but  he  only  turned  and  looked  down  at  me,  with  a 
slightly  amused,  slightly  superior  smile. 

"Questions?" 

"About  ships — and  how  long  we  intend  staying 
— and  what  travelers  usually  ask !"  I  said. 

He  shook  his  head,  as  if  the  subjects  held  little 
interest  for  him. 

"Why  should  I  ask  that — when  I  happen  to 
know?"  he  inquired. 

"You  know— what?" 

"That  you  came  over  on  the  Luxuria" 

"Yes?" 

"And  that  The  Oldburgh  Herald  sent  you— to 
write  up  the  coal  strike." 

"Yes— it  did." 

"And  that  you  are  going  to  stay — some  time." 

I  was  decidedly  uncomfortable. 

"Will  you  please  explain  how  you  knew  all 
this?"  I  asked. 

His  smile  died  away. 


302  AMAZING  GRACE 

"Mrs.  Hiram  Walker  wrote  her  son  to  call  on 
me  while  I  was  in  New  York,"  he  explained  in 
his  serious  lawyer-like  manner,  "and  he  happened 
to  leave  a  copy  of  The  Oldburgh  Herald  in  my 
rooms." 

"Oh!     That  was  quite  simple,  wasn't  it?" 

"Quite!" 

It  occurred  to  me  then  that  there  was  no  use 
trying  to  keep  fate's  name  out  of  this  conversa- 
tion— and  also  it  came  to  me  that  the  orchids 
were  no  longer  a  mystery — but  before  I  could 
make  up  my  mind  to  mention  this  he  turned  to 
me  ferociously. 

"You  did  make  a  fool  of  me !"  he  accused. 

My  heart  began  thumping  again. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  began,  but  he  cut  me 
short. 

"It  is  this  that  I  can  not  get  over !  The  thought 
has  come  to  me  that  perhaps  if  I  might  hear  you 
acknowledge  it,  I  might  be  able  to  forgive  you 
better." 

"Forgive  me?" 


LONDON  303 

He  leaned  toward  me. 

"If  you  don't  mind,  I  should  like  to  hear  you 
say :  'Maitland  Tait,  I  did  make  a  fool  of  you !' ' 

"But  I  didn't!"  I  denied  stoutly,  while  my  face 
flushed,  and  all  the  fighting  blood  in  me  seemed 
to  send  forth  a  challenge  from  my  cheeks.  "I'll 
say  what  I  do  think,  however,  if  you  wish  to  hear 
it!" 

"And  that  is ?" 

"Maitland  Tait,  you  made  a  fool  of  yourself!" 

He  looked  disappointed. 

"Oh,  I  know  that!"  he  replied. 

"You  do?     Since  when,  please?" 

"Why,  I  knew  it  before  I  crossed  the  Ohio 
River!"  he  acknowledged,  seeming  to  take  some 
pride  in  the  fact.  "I — I  intended  to  apologize — • 
or  something — when  I  got  to  Pittsburgh,  but 
when  I  reached  New  York,  on  my  way  here,  I 
saw  that  you  were  coming  to  England,  too " 

"So  you  thought  the  matter  could  easily  wait — > 
I  see!"  I  observed,  then,  to  change  the  subject,  I 
asked:  "Have  you  been  here  long?" 


304  AMAZING  GRACE 

"Two  weeks!  I  knew  that  I  should  get  news 
of  you  in  this  neighborhood,  sooner  or  later." 

I  instantly  smiled. 

"I  have  come  here  for  my  first  Sunday,  you 
see,  but " 

"But  you  haven't  been  to  the  abbey  yet,  have 
you?"  he  asked. 

The  boyish  anxiety  in  his  tone  gave  me  a  thrill. 
Something  in  the  thought  of  his  remembering  my 
romantic  whim  touched  me. 

"No.  I  have  just  come  from  there — the  lodge 
— but  the  old  woman  at  the  gates  wouldn't  let  me 
in." 

He  looked  interested. 

"No?     Bat  why  not?" 

"The  master  of  the  house  has  just  died,"  I  ex- 
plained. "It  would  be  a  terrible  breach  of 
etiquette  to  go  sight-seeing  over  the  mourning 
acres." 

His  lips  closed  firmly. 

"Nonsense !  I'll  venture  that's  just  a  servant's 
whim."  He  slipped  out  his  watch.  "Shall  I 


LONDON  305 

go  over  and  try  to  beg  or  bribe  permission  for 
you?  I'm  not  easily  daunted  by  their  refusals, 
and — I'll  have  a  little  time  to  spare  this  morning, 
if  you'd  care  to  put  your  marooned  period  to 
such  a  use." 

"I  am  marooned,"  I  told,  him,  wondering  for 
a  moment  what  the  Montgomerys  would  think  of 
my  delay,  "and  I  should  like  this,  of  course,  above 
anything  else  that  England  has  to  offer,  but " 

Then,  after  his  precipitate  fashion,  he  waited 
for  no  more.  He  paused  at  the  edge  of  the  plat- 
form for  a  low-toned  colloquy  with  Collins — I 
could  easily  distinguish  now  that  the  liveried  crea- 
ture was  Collins — and  the  two  disappeared  down 
the  car  track.  After  the  briefest  delay  he  re- 
turned. 

"What  can't  be  cured  must  be  ignored,"  he 
said  with  a  shrug,  as  he  came  up.  "The  poor  old 
devil  evidently  regards  us  as  very  impious  and — 
American,  but  I  made  everything  all  right  with 
her." 

"But  how ?"  I  started  to  inquire,  also  at 


N 

AMAZING  GRACE 


the  same  moment  starting  down  the  track  toward 
the  lodge  house,  when  he  stopped  both  my  ques- 
tion and  my  progress. 

"Let  us  wait  here — I  have  sent  Collins  to  get  a 
car  for  us  from  the  garage  not  far  away." 

He  led  the  way  out  to  a  drive,  sheltered  with 
trees,  on  the  other  side  of  the  track,  and  we 
awaited  the  coming  of  Collins — neither  showing 
any  disposition  to  talk. 

"Is  this  your  car?"  I  presently  asked,  as  the 
servant  driving  a  gleaming  black  machine  drew 
up  in  front  of  us.  "I  hadn't  imagined  that  you 
would  have  your  own  car  down  in  the  country 
with  you." 

"I've  had  experience  with  these  trains,"  he  ex- 
plained briefly,  then  he  looked  the  car  over  with 
a  masterful  eye.  "Yes,  it's  mine." 

"I  really  shouldn't  have  needed  to  ask — there's 
so  strong  a  family  resemblance  to  the  other  one — 
the  limousine  you  had  in  Oldburgh." 

He  looked  pleased. 

"I  hope  you'll  like  this  one — it's  a  Blanton  Six, 


LONDON  307 

you  see,"  he  explained  with  a  pat  of  affectionate 
pride  upon  the  door-handle  as  he  helped  me  in. 

Collins  climbed  to  his  place  at  the  wheel,  and 
without  another  word — without  one  backward 
look — I  was  whirled  away  into  the  Land  of  Long 
Ago — the  period  where  I  had  always  belonged. 

2fC  5}£  ))C  5jC  3|C  >(C  3|C  5)C 

At  the  second  lodge — the  grand  one — I  pinched 
myself.  I  had  to,  to  see  whether  I  was  awake — 
or  dreaming  a  Jane  Austen  dream.  Maitland 
Tait,  watching  me  closely,  saw  the  act. 

"You're  quite  awake,"  he  assured  me  gravely. 

"But — what  are  you?"  I  inquired.  "Are  you 
yourself — or  Aladdin,  or " 

I  broke  off  abruptly,  for  the  car  was  gliding 
over  a  bridge,  and  underneath  was  a  silvery, 
glinting  ribbon,  that  might,  in  fairy-land,  pass 
for  a  river. 

"Shall  I  stop  the  car  and  let  you  dabble  the 
toe  of  your  shoe  in  the  water?"  my  guide  asked. 

1  looked  at  him  in  bewilderment. 

"I  shan't  be  able  to  believe  it's  just  water — • 


3o8  AMAZING  GRACE 

unless  you  do,"  I  explained.  He  had  seen  the 
look  I  let  fall  upon  the  shining  breast  of  the 
stream. 

"And  I'll  send  Collins  away." 

"Of  course!  It's  sacrilegious  to  let  any 
wooden- faced  human  look  upon — all  this!" 

The  car  obediently  let  us  out,  then  steamed 
softly  away,  up  the  road  and  out  of  sight. 

Mr.  Tait  held  out  his  hand  to  me  and  helped 
me  down  the  steep  little  river  bank.  I  dabbled 
the  toe  of  my  shoe  in  the  water,  and  as  he  finally 
drew  me  away,  with  the  suggestion  of  further 
delights,  I  caught  sight  of  a  tiny  fish,  lying  whitely 
upward  in  a  tangle  of  weeds. 

"How  could  he  die?"  I  asked  mournfully,  as 
we  walked  away  and  climbed  back  to  the  level  of 
the  park.  "It  seems  so  unappreciative." 

The  man  beside  me  laughed. 

"Things — even  the  most  beautiful  things  on 
earth — don't  keep  people — or  fish  alive,"  he  said. 
"They  can't  even  make  people  want  to  stay  alive 
— if  this  is  all  they  have,  and  after  all,  the  river 


LONDON  309 

is  just  a  thing — and  the  park  is  a  thing — and  the 
house  is  a  thing!" 

We  had  walked  on  rapidly,  and  at  that  moment 
the  house  itself  became  apparent.  I  clutched  his 
arm. 

"A  thing!"  I  denied,  looking  at  it  in  a  dazed 
fashion.  "Why,  it's  the  House  of  a  Hundred 
Dreams!  It's  all  the  dreams  of  April  mornings 
—and  Christmas  nights — and " 

"And  what?"  he  asked  gravely.  But  my  eyes 
were  still  intoxicated. 

"Why,  it's  Religion — and  Art — and  Love — 
*nd  Comfort!" 

He  looked  at  it  wonderingly,  as  if  he  expected 
to  see  statues  representing  these  chapters  in  the 
book  of  Life. 

What  he  saw  was  a  tangle  of  gravel  walks, 
gray  as  the  desert,  drawing  away  from  grassy 
places  and  coming  up  sharply  against  the  house. 
Such  a  house !  A  church — a  tomb — a  fluttering- 
curtained  living-hall — all  stretched  out  in  one  long 
chain  of  battlemented  stone.  Where  the  church 


310  AMAZING  GRACE 

began  and  the  living-hall  ended  no  one  could  say, 
for  there  were  trees  everywhere. 

"The  lower  part  of  the  abbey  is  in  good  condi- 
tion, it  seems,"  my  conductor  remarked,  as  we 
approached. 

"Good  condition!"  I  echoed.  "Why,  those 
doorways  are  as  realistic  as — Sunday  morning! 
I  feel  that  I  ought  to  have  on  a  silk  dress — and 
hold  the  corners  of  my  prayer-book  with  a  hand- 
kerchief— to  keep  from  soiling  my  white  gloves." 

"If  you  listen  perhaps  you  can  hear  the  choir- 
boys," he  said,  after  a  pause,  and  without  smiling. 

"But  there  might  be  a  sermon,  too !"  I  objected. 

High  above  the  doors  was  a  great  open  space 
of  a  missing  window;  then,  over  this,  smaller 
spaces  for  smaller  windows;  and — in  a  niched 
pinnacle — the  Virgin. 

"How  can  she — a  woman  in  love — endure  all 
this  beauty?"  I  asked,  my  voice  hushed  with  awe. 

"She's  endured  it  for  many  centuries,  it  seems," 
he  answered. 

But  we  came  closer  then. 


LONDON  311 

"Why,  she  hasn't  even  seen  it — not  once!"  I 
cried,  for  I  saw  then  that  she  was  not  looking 
up,  but  down — at  the  burden  in  her  arms. 

Instinctively  Maitland  Tait  bared  his  head  as 
we  crossed  the  threshold. 

"Shall  we  try  to  find  a  way  through  here  into 
the  gardens?"  he  asked. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HOUSE  OF  A  HUNDRED  DREAMS 

THE  shadows  inside  the  roofless  old  abbey 
were   warm  and   friendly.     The   sunlight 
gleamed  against  the  tombs  with  a  cheer  which 
always  falls  over  very  old  grief  spots. 

"This  quietude — this  sense  of  all  Tightness — 
makes  you  feel  that  nothing  really  matters, 
doesn't  it?"  I  asked,  looking  around  with  a  sort 
of  awed  delight  as  we  paused  to  read  one  or  two 
inscriptions — voluminous  in  length  and  medieval 
in  spelling. 

The  man  at  my  side  was  less  awed. 

"Shall  we  go  on  to  the  gardens,  then?"  he 
asked.  "You'll  not  think  so  little  of  temporal 
pleasures  there,  perhaps." 

I  looked  up  at  him. 

312 


HOUSE  OF  A  HUNDRED  DREAMS  313 

"But  why?" 

"Well,  because  these  gardens  are  usually  filled 
with  suggestions  of  living  joys — for  one  thing. 
There  are  millions  of  forget-me-nots,  which  al- 
ways give  a  cheering  aspect  to  the  landscape — 
and  there  are  frequently  the  flowers  mentioned  in 
Shakespeare's  plays." 

With  a  sigh  of  regret  we  left  the  sanctuary. 
Then,  turning  a  corner  of  the  old  stone  wall  we 
came  full  upon  a  side  of  the  house  which  was 
receiving  shamelessly  the  biggest  sun-kiss  I  had 
ever  seen.  But  then,  it  was  the  biggest  house  I 
had  ever  seen.  It  was  the  gladdest  sun — and  it 
was  the  warmest  blending.  Between  house  and 
sun — as  if  they  were  the  love  children  of  this 
union — lay  thousands  of  brilliant  flowers. 

When  I  could  get  my  breath  I  made  a  quick 
suggestion  that  we  go  closer. 

"I  want  to  know  which  is  rosemary — and 
which  is  rue!"  I  told  him.  But  he  stopped  a 
moment  and  detained  me. 

We  halted  beside  a  fallen  stone,  at  a  point 


3i4  AMAZING  GRACE 

slightly  separated  from  the  walls  of  the  house — a 
sort  of  half-way  ground,  where  the  shadow  of 
the  Greek  cross  on  an  isolated  pinnacle  seemed 
still  to  claim  the  ground  for  religion,  against  the 
encroachments  of  the  work-a-day  world.  Mait- 
land  Tait's  sudden  smile  was  a  mixture  of  amuse- 
ment and  tenderness. 

"I've  recently  heard  a  story  about  this  spot — 
this  identical  stone — which  will  interest  you,"  he 
said.  "A  monk  comes  here  at  night — one  of 
those  old  fellows  buried  in  there." 

I  smiled. 

"It's  quite  true!"  he  insisted.  "People  have 
seen  him." 

"I  know  it,"  I  avowed  seriously.  "I  was  not 
smiling  out  of  unbelief,  but  out  of  sheer  joy  at 
beholding  with  mine  own  eyes  the  'Norman 
stone !' 

'*  'He  mutters  his  prayers  on  the  midnight  air, 
'And  his  mass  of  the  days  that  are  gone.' ' 

Maitland  Tait  looked  at  me  in  surprise. 


HOUSE  OF  A  HUNDRED  DREAMS  315 

"Do  you  know  all  the  legends  of  the  place  ?"  he 
asked. 

I  shook  my  head  sorrowfully. 

"I  wish  I  did,"  I  replied.  "For  so  many  years 
this  has  been  my  House  of  a  Hundred  Dreams!" 

We  both  fell  into  a  moment's  dreamy  thought- 
fulness,  which  I  was  first  to  cast  aside. 

"Come  and  tell  me  about  the  plants,  if  you 
can !"  I  begged.  "Which  is  rosemary,  and  which 
is  rue?" 

We  walked  down  a  flight  of  worn  steps,  and 
came  upon  prim  gravel  pathways. 

"This  is  rosemary,"  he  said,  "and  here,  by  the 
sun-dial,  is  rue." 

Then,  even  when  I  realized  that  this  was  the 
place  where  Lady  Frances  Webb  had  spent  her 
wearisome  days,  to  keep  from  hearing  the  clock 
chime  in  the  hall,  I  could  not  be  sad.  The  sun- 
dial was  another  grief  spot,  it  was  true,  but  it 
was  an  ancient  grief  spot — and  it  was  located  in 
a  golden  sea  of  sunshine,  under  a  sky  that  was 
the  reflection  of  forget-me-nots. 


316  AMAZING  GRACE 

"She  could  gather  the  rue  while  the  sun-dial 
told,  all  silently,  of  the  day's  wearing  on,"  I  said. 

He  looked  at  me  uncertainly. 

"Did  she  say  that  in  her  letters  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  She  had  sent  her  lover  away,  you  see, 
and — there  was  nothing  else  in  life." 

"And  she  longed  for  the  days  to  pass  silently  ?" 

"She  stayed  out  here  as  much  as  she  could — to 
keep  from  hearing  the  clock  in  the  hall,"  I  told 
him.  "The  chime  shamed  the  unholy  prayer  on 
her  lips,  she  said — and  the  sound  of  the  ticking 
reminded  her  of  her  heart's  wearying  beats." 
•  "Of  their  hearts'  wearying  beats,  you  mean," 
he  exclaimed,  and  a  quick  look  of  pain  which 
darted  into  his  face  showed  me  that  he  compre- 
hended. Then,  for  the  first  time,  I  began  to 
grasp  what  a  lover  he  would  make !  Before  this 
time  I  had  been  absorbed  with  thoughts  of  him 
as  a  beloved. 

Suddenly  my  hat  began  to  feel  intolerably 
heavy,  and  my  gloves  intolerably  hot.  I  tampered 
fumblingly  with  the  pearl  clasp  at  my  left  wrist, 


HOUSE  OF  A  HUNDRED  DREAMS  317 

and  drew  that  glove  off  first.  Maitland  Tait  was 
watching  me.  He  saw  my  hand — my  bare  ring- 
less  hand.  He  stared  at  it  as  if  it  might  have 
been  a  ghost,  although  it  looked  fairly  pink  and 
healthy  in  the  warm  glow  of  the  noonday  sun. 
Even  the  little  pallid  circle  on  the  third  finger  was 
quite  gone. 

"Grace "  he  said. 

"Yes?" 

"Does  this  mean  that  you're — you're " 

A  discreet  cough — a  still  distant,  but  distinctly 
warning  cough — interrupted  for  a  moment.  Col- 
lins was  coming  toward  us,  from  the  ruins  of 
the  old  abbey.  Maitland  Tait  looked  up  and  saw 
him  coming,  but  he  did  not  stop.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  sight  of  his  servant  seemed  to  goad  him 
into  a  hasty  precipitation. 

"Grace,  will  you  marry  me?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course!"  I  managed  to  say,  but  not  too 
energetically,  for  the  muscles  of  my  throat  were 
giving  me  trouble  again. 

"Soon  ?"  he  asked  hungrily. 


3i8  AMAZING  GRACE 

I  felt  very  reckless  and — American. 

"Before  the  shadows  pass  round  this  dial  again, 
if  you  insist/'  I  smiled. 

But  his  eyes  were  very  grave. 

"Without  knowing  anything  more  about  me 
than  you  know  now  ?" 

"Why,  I  know  everything  about  you,"  I  replied, 
in  some  astonishment.  "I  know  that  you  are  the 
biggest,  and  the  best-looking,  and  the  dear- 
est  " 

"You  know  nothing  about  me,"  he  interrupted 
softly,  "except  what  I  have  told  you.  I  am  a 
working  man!  I  have  always  had  the  mass 
hatred  for  class,  and — and  my  grandfather  was 
a  coal-digger  in  Wales." 

I  was  silent. 

"Yet,  you  are  willing  to  marry  me  ?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course!     Coal  is — very  warming,"  I  an- 
swered. 
******** 

Collins  descended  the  flight  of  stone  steps  and 
came  slowly  along  the  gravel  walk.  When  he 


HOUSE  OF  A  HUNDRED  DREAMS  319 

had  come  to  the  respectful  distance  he  stopped. 
No  English  servant  ever  approaches  very  close — 
as  if  there  were  a  quarantine  around  the  sacred 
person  of  the  served. 

"My  Lord,"  he  said,  but  stammeringly,  as  a 
man  halts  over  a  newly-acquired  language — "My 
Lord,  Mrs.  Carr  wishes  to  know  if  you  will  have 
lunch  served  in  the  oak  room,  or  in  the " 

"In  the  oak  room,"  the  man  standing  beside  me 
answered  readily  enough.  "And  have  the  old 
wing  opened  and  lighted,  Collins.  We  want  to 
see  the  pictures  in  there." 

The  servant  breathed  the  inevitable  "Thank 
you,"  and  turned  away. 

I  seemed  suddenly  to  feel  that  the  golden  sea 
of  sunlight  was  sweeping  me  away — up  into  the 
blue,  which  was  the  reflection  of  forget-me-nots. 
And  there  loomed  big  on  my  horizon  a  house 
that  was  a  home ! 

"My  Lord?"  I  demanded,  as  soon  as  I  could 
speak. 

Maitland  Tait  nodded  reassuringly. 


326  AMAZING  GRACE 

"My  father  died  two  weeks  ago,"  he  said. 
"And  I  had  to  come  into  the  title." 

"And  this  place  is  yours!"  I  sang  out,  feeling 
that  all  the  years  of  my  life  I  had  been  destiny's 
love-child.  "This  old  abbey  is  yours !  The  park 
is  yours !  The  garden  is  yours !  The  sun-dial  is 
yours  I" 

"And  the  girl  is  mine !"  he  said,  with  a  grave 
smile.  "I  am  careless  of  all  the  other." 

His  gravity  sobered  my  wild  spirits. 

"And  your  father  was — Lord  Erskine?"  I 
finally  asked. 

"He  was — Lord  Erskine,"  he  answered.  "He 
married  out  of  his  station — far,  far  above  his 
station,  /  think "  , 

His  big  beautiful  mouth  set  grimly,  but  he  said 
nothing  more,  and  I  knew  that  this  was  as  heavily 
as  he  would  ever  tread  upon  the  ashes  of  the  dead. 
Gradually,  bit  by  bit,  I  learned  the  history  of  the 
muddy  pool  of  mistake  and  fault,  out  of  which 
the  tender  blossom  of  his  boyhood  had  been 
dragged.  His  father  had  never  seen  him,  but  a 


HOUSE  OF  A  HUNDRED  DREAMS  321 

certain  stiff-necked  family  pride  had  caused  him 
to  provide  material  bounty  for  his  child.  The 
combination  of  a  good  education  and  rugged 
plebeian  industry  had  made  him  what  he  was. 

"But  why  didn't  you  tell  me — that  day  when 
you  first  came  to  see  me  and  we  talked  about  this 
place — why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  it  was  your 
ancestral  home?" 

He  looked  at  me  in  surprise. 

"Why,  because  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to 
marry  you!"  he  said.  "You  told  me  that  this 
old  place  was  a  sort  of  dreamland  of  yours — and 
I  didn't  want  to  complicate  matters.  I  wanted 
your  love  for  me  to  be  a  reality." 

"Well,  it — it  is!"  I  confessed. 

After  a  long  while — that  is,  the  sun-dial  said 
it  was  a  long  while — spent  this  way  a  sudden 
thought  of  my  waiting  hosts  at  Bannerley  came 
over  me.  I  sprang  up  from  the  step  of  the 
pedestal  where  we  had  been  sitting. 

"I  must  get  some  word  to  Mrs.  Montgomery !" 
I  said.  "They  will  be  thinking  that  my  rash 


322  AMAZING  GRACE 

American  ways  have  got  me  into  some  dreadful 
scrape,  I'm  afraid." 

But  the  serene  man  at  my  side  was  still  serene. 
His  face  looked  as  if  nothing  on  earth  could  ever 
cause  him  a  pang  again.  He  caught  my  hand 
and  drew  me  gently,  but  rather  steadfastly  back 
to  my  place. 

"Mrs.  Montgomery  knows  everything — except 
that  we  are  going  to  be  married — when  did  you 
say,  to-morrow?"  he  smiled.  "I've  been  staying 
with  them,  and  they  told  me  about  you,  and  I 
told  them  about  you — and  we  had  rather  a  satis- 
factory adjustment  of  neighborly  relations." 

I  looked  at  him  in  awe.  I  could  not  quite 
shake  off  the  idea  that  he  had  a  miraculous  lamp 
hidden  about  somewhere  in  his  pockets.  Things 
seemed  to  happen  when  he  wished  them  to  hap- 
pen. 

"Did  you  chance  to  know  that  I  would  take  a 
bad  train  and  be  delayed  here  this  morning  at 
sunrise?"  I  asked,  trying  to  look  dignified  and 
unawed.  "Did  you  know  that  I  should  be  com- 


HOUSE  OF  A  HUNDRED  DREAMS    323 

pelled  to  waste  precious  morning  hours  pacing  up 
and  down  a  railway  station  platform?" 

"Why,  of  course,"  he  answered  imperturbably. 
"Mrs.  Montgomery  sent  me  over  to  meet  you." 

I  sprang  up  again,  more  energetically  this  time. 

"Then  why  didn't  you  meet  me  ?"  I  asked,  with 
the  horror  of  shocking  English  propriety  over- 
whelming me.  "Come!  We  must  go  to  Ban- 
nerley  at  once." 

He  rose  and  followed  me  toward  the  main  gar- 
den path.  Then  he  pointed  the  way  to  the  house 
door. 

"I've  had  Collins  telephone  that  your  train  was 
very,  very  late,"  he  explained.  "She'll  not  be 
surprised — nor  too  inquisitive.  She  even  sug- 
gested this  morning  that  if  you  shouldn't  get  in 
until  evening — the  drive  to  Bannerley  is  very  fine 

by  moonlight." 
******** 

In  the  late  afternoon  the  chilly  dusk  sent  little 
forerunners  ahead,  which  caused  the  old  wing  of 
the  house  to  be  lighted  from  within,  instead  of 


324  AMAZING  GRACE 

opened  to  the  cool  dying  sunset.  A  cheery  fire 
was  kindled  in  the  room  which  had  once  been  the 
library  of  Lady  Frances  Webb. 

The  dampness  and  air  of  disuse  disappeared, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  personalities  came  forth  from 
the  shadowy  corners  and  sat  beside  the  fire  with 
Maitland  Tait  and  me. 

"This  was  her  own  desk,  they  tell  me,"  he  said, 
as  he  was  showing  the  ancient  treasures  to  me, 
yet  still  looking  at  them  himself  with  half-awed, 
almost  unbelieving  eyes.  "This  was  where  all 
her  famous  books  were  written." 

I  crossed  the  room  to  where  the  little  locked 
secretary  stood.  Its  polished  surface  was  send- 
ing back  the  firelight's  glow  and  seemed  to  pro- 
claim that  its  own  mahogany  was  imprisoned  sun- 
shine. 

"And  she  wrote  those  letters  here,"  I  said  in 
a  hushed  voice.  "Do  you  suppose  she  has  some 
of  his  letters  locked  away  somewhere?" 

He  nodded,  fitting  the  key  to  its  lock  very  care- 
fully. 


j(~,G*n/(     I 


He  drew  me  to  a  corner  of  the  room 


HOUSE  OF  A  HUNDRED  DREAMS    325 

"All  of  them !  All  the  letters  written  her  by — 
Uncle  James." 

"And  we  are  going  to  look  over  them  together 
— you  and  I  are  going  to  read  these  love-letters — 
before  we  burn  them?"  I  asked,  quick  joy  making 
my  voice  tremulous. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence  in  the  old 
room,  then  he  turned  away  from  the  secretary, 
and  came  very  close. 

"Why  burn  them — now?"  he  asked,  his  own 
strong  voice  of  a  sudden  more  tremulous  than 
mine.  "Why  burn  them,  now,  darling?  Why 
not — hand — them — down  ?" 

Then — in  that  instant — I  knew  what  life  was 
going  to  mean  to  me.  And  I  felt  as  if  I  had  the 
great  joy  of  the  world — hugged  close — in  a  circle 
of  radiance — like  the  Madonna  delta  Sedia! 

"I  can  be  good — a  very  good  woman — if  I 
have  your  face  before  me,"  I  told  him. 

After  a  while  he  smiled,  then  took  my  hand 
and  drew  me  to  a  shadowy  corner  of  the  room. 

"You  haven't  seen  this  yet,"  he  said. 


326  AMAZING  GRACE 

There  was  a  crimson  velvet  curtain  hanging 
before  a  picture,  and  he  drew  aside  the  folds. 

"This  is — Uncle  James." 

The  candlelight  shone  against  the  canvas,  and 
glittered  in  dancing  little  waves  over  the  name- 
plate  on  the  frame. 

"Portrait  of  the  Artist,  by  Himself." 

"Was  it  a  comfort  to  her,  I  wonder?"  my  lover 
said,  his  thoughts  only  half  with  the  past. 

"A  torturing  comfort — the  kind  a  woman  like 
her  demands,"  I  answered.  "She  had  to  go  to 
it  every  hour  in  every  day — and  look  at  it — to 
make  her  heart  ache,  because  it  was  only  a  pic- 
ture. She  was  a  human  being— as  well  as  a 
novelist,  so  that  such  as  this  could  only  add  to  her 
anguish.  She  wanted  a  living  face " 

"She  wanted— this?" 

He  set  the  candlestick  down  and  put  both  arms 
round  me. 

"She  wanted— this?'  he  breathed. 

His  face  was  close  above  mine — waiting  for 
the  first  ki§s.  A  moment  later  it  came — descend* 


HOUSE  OF  A  HUNDRED  DREAMS    327 

ing  gently,  like  some  blessed  holy  thing.  And  it 
was  that. 

"You  are  like  him,"  I  whispered.  "Your  face 
can  make  me  good." 

His  arms  tightened,  and  a  smile  escaped. 

"And  yours?  What  will  you  be  like  to  me?" 
he  asked. 

I  looked  up,  remembering. 

"Like — just  an  American  woman — a  torment- 
ing side-issue  in  your  busy  life?" 

But  he  shook  his  head  gravely. 

"No— not  that." 

A  casement  was  open  near  by,  and  he  drew  me 
toward  the  shaft  of  radiance  which  fell  into  the 
shadowed  room. 

Across  the  courtyard,  white  now  with  moon- 
light, were  the  ruins  of  the  abbey.  There  shone 
a  softened  luster  through  the  space  of  the  absent 
window,  and  above,  resplendent  in  her  niche, 
stood  the  Virgin.  Her  head  was  bowed  above  the 
burden  in  her  arms. 

"Like  that— like  that!"  he  whispered. 

THE  END 


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